No Good Choices
by ncisnewbie
Summary: What are some of the challenges facing the women of NCIS: LA?
1. Chapter 1

If you don't like the worldviews the characters express, just remember the title.

Standard Disclaimers: I don't own these characters.

**Spring, 2014, The Hanna household, 9:00 pm**

Agent Sam Hanna tucked his oldest daughter, Beryl, into bed and gave her an extra kiss on the temple. Almost immediately, though, his demeanor changed and he rumbled to the liquor cabinet like a grizzly bear to a salmon stream. Without a moment's thought, he extracted the bourbon and a tumbler, and poured himself a triple. He turned to hold it up to the light, examined it for a second, took a gulp, and turned back to add two more shots.

"Samuel Todd Wilson Hanna, what," every syllable of his name rang out like a separate accusation, "do you think you're doing?"

As he looked at Michele, looks of guilt and frustration became a mask of defiance. "Rough day."

She grabbed for the bottle. "Nothing can be that rough. Give me that."

Defeated, he let her extract the bottle and return it to the cabinet, but took his glass to the sofa, where he sat down and spread across one arm rest. Michele curled up next to him, let him finish his (long) drink, then helped herself to a sip from his glass. "What happened, Honey?"

"Did you ever meet Lisa Hamilton?"

"Sure, she was a year behind me at the FBI academy."

"I had to shoot her today."

"Oh, my goodness! What happened?"

"I only winged her. Hand's in a bandage."

**Thirteen hours earlier**:

Hetty Lange ambled into the ops center, clearly interrupting some serious whisperings between Eric and Nell. She gave them a folder and explained, "LAPD has asked us to look into this since the victim is a foreign national."

Twenty minutes later, they briefed the team, sounding today more like a ping-pong dance than dueling briefers. "This is Ahmed Al-Sanjouri, twenty-three, single, on a student visa from Algeria."

"He's a member of a prominent pro-American family there."

"He was studying civil engineering at UCLA, until"

"he was shot in the alley behind a grocery store two miles from campus, three blocks from his apartment." A crime scene photo flashed onto the screen, showing the dead body beside two reusable grocery bags, their contents scattered across the asphalt.

"There's no good video surveillance of the alley, but here he is entering the alley at 2:37 last night." A grainy video showed his back as he went around a corner, followed by someone in a college warmup suit with the hood pulled up.

"This must be who did it, but we haven't gotten them on any other video," finished Eric.

"I think it's a woman," Marty Deeks ventured.

"What? How can you tell?" his partner asked.

"The hips. You see, the females of the species evolved broader hips in order to…" His explanation screeched to a halt as soon as his brain realized where his words were headed. "You know what, never mind."

Kensi erupted. "Oh my god! Here we are watching the last steps this poor kid would ever take, and you spend the time checking out his assailant's butt?"

"What can I say? I'm a detective. I detect things."

Kensi grabbed a large handful of Deeks' backside and narrowed her eyes at him. "You're gonna detect a swift kick in the touché if you can't keep your mind on the case."

"Trouble in paradise, you two?" asked Callen with a smirk.

Meanwhile, equations and diagrams flashed across the big screen until Nell spoke up. "He has a point, though. Based on Al-Sanjouri's height of six-foot-one, I've used rough calculations to figure that the assailant was about five-foot-four."

"Is that in shoes or stocking feet?" quipped Callen.

"It looks like they're both wearing tennis shoes so the height should be…" Eric defended.

Nell cut in, "It's just a rough estimate."

Sam Hanna rolled his eyes and elbowed Callen. "Geeks: they wouldn't know a joke if it landed in their cup-o-soup," was his aside. To the group he said, "Forget about it. It's enough to start a search."

"What we need to know is what happened before and after this—apparently—hit," Nell said after she recovered.

"Kensi, Deeks: you go to his apartment to see if you can find a motive. Nell, Eric: anything you can find on his backstory, and go through the video surveillance with a fine-tooth comb. Sam and I will go to the crime scene, see how the killer got away."

The team turned to leave. "Well, Fern. At least we don't have to interview the grieving widow again."

"He was single, goofball!" Kensi replied.

"Hey! Ouch!"

A little later, Callen was checking behind the dumpster in the alley when his phone rang. Nell dove right in, "We've been checking Al-Sanjouri's credit cards, and it looks like he shops at that grocery store every Monday at about two in the morning."

"Stocking up for the week when it's quiet, I guess. I like that plan. If it weren't bad tradecraft, I'd start shopping then, too."

"That's a good point. Suggests that Al-Sanjouri isn't an operative."

"LAPD had already found the shells: looks like a Ruger."

"So we're thinking the perp was a pro or an operative?"

"That would explain it. There wasn't anyone else in the store when it happened. The shooter must have been waiting in the parking lot while he shopped."

"Callen, do they archive their security cam footage? If we could look over previous shopping trips, we could see if anything else was going on."

"I'll ask 'em. We should be able to upload it to you."

* * *

><p>An hour later, the team regrouped in ops to compare notes. Sam Hanna led off, "It looks like the alley was a common shortcut between the store and the student quarter. The perp could have parked in the next street over and just driven away after the murder." At this, Eric started typing, as images on his monitor responded to his commands. Soon an image flashed onto the big screen.<p>

Eric introduced the video. In the distance, it showed the hooded figure at a quick trot, but still no face. "This is the shooter crossing that street after the kill…. And here's the next street." This time, it showed the figure climbing into a minivan. "Drats! They took off the plates."

"Again, makes it look like a hit," commented Callen.

Sam Hanna's voice dripped with contempt. "But a minivan? What self-respecting hitman drives a minivan?"

"Hitwoman," corrected Nell.

"In which case, it makes a more plausible cover," commented Kensi.

"Besides, you can probably fit an assault rifle into the under-seat storage, and a hand grenade in each of the seventeen cup-holders." Shaggy looked around as his soliloquy made a mid-course correction. "So is there a connection between Minivan Lady and Dead Engineer?"

"Here's what we found on surveillance video. Last week, she was waiting in the parking lot while he shopped, and two weeks ago, they met at the checkout counter. Same three weeks ago."

"Did she pay by credit card?"

"No, but at least she wasn't wearing a hoodie the first time they met."

"Who is she?"

"That's where it gets interesting, guys. It's Lisa Hamilton. She was with the FBI, married agent Mike Wadstrom, and went on leave when the children came, about four years ago."

"Is Wadstrom still active?"

"Yeah. He's transferred to the Lakewood office now."

"And they bought a house near UCLA."

Callen stepped closer to the big screen, which still showed the surveillance footage of them checking out. "Did you guys run facial rec on our victim?"

"No, his ID was in his wallet."

"What've you got, G.?" asked Sam.

Eric put the photos on the screen saying, "Here we are. It's a match to his visa, his California and Algerian driver's licenses, his Algerian passport, and even his student ID at the American School in Algiers."

Callen looked at them with furrowed brow, "There's something familiar about that face."

Eric offered, "I'll run the search again, with broader match parameters."

Images flashed across his console, and every so often another man's face would appear on the big screen.

"There!" shouted Nell pointing at the newest face that appeared. It was surrounded by a red frame, and as Eric pulled it up, they could read the caption, _Hosni Gareshi, Treasury department ten-most-wanted list 3/8/08 – 4/16/11. Born 8/21/85, died 4/16/11._

Eric sounded puzzled. "But Nell, that's only a 84% match."

Kensi was equally wary. "And he's dead anyway. Looks like somebody took him out."

"SEALS," said Sam, pointing to the accompanying report. "But how does this help us, G.?"

"I think I see where this is headed," cut in Eric. "Gareshi was a wanted man when Hamilton went on leave."

Nell continued, "She couldn't know he'd been taken out, but then bumps into his look-alike, Al-Sanjouri, at the supermarket."

Sam completed the train of reasoning. "So Hamilton killed the wrong guy."

Deeks put it in perspective. "What? She thinks she caught a major international money-launderer 'cause he was squeezin' the Charmin at two in the morning?"

Sam replied, " 'Don't squeeze the Charmin,' Mr. Whipple wasn't kidding around!"

Callen sounded a little defensive as he summarized, "It's just a working theory. Let's flesh it out before we confront her. She's got family, probably not a flight risk."

Eric put a fresh video on the screen. "Right: Afternoon preschool just started for her oldest. Here she is dropping him off. Oh, and she's got the plates back on her van."

"Let's bring her supervisor to the boatshed, see what we can find out about her."

With Sam Hanna sitting across from him, FBI Special Agent In Charge Vince Marshall spread across the sofa in the boatshed, incongruously comfortable as a murder investigation zeroed in on one of his own. "Sure, I was sorry to see her go. She made Wadstrom a better agent just by marrying him, but then she got into this whole 'biological clock' thing, and we lost her to motherhood."

Callen asked, "Is Agent Hamilton…"

"Mrs. Wadstrom," Marshall interrupted.

Callen persisted, "Is she on leave of absence?"

"Leaves of absence expire after twenty-one months. When she didn't come back after that, we had to let her go."

Sam sounded shocked. "That's it? No allowances?"

"You wouldn't believe what I had to do just 'cause Wadstrom couldn't keep it in his pants. I wrote a whole memo to get her permission to exhaust her accrued sick leave and vacation time before the twenty-one months started. And besides, she got almost two extra days because her leave started May 1, so it included only one February. On top of that, that was a leap year, so that's almost three extra days."

"You wrote a whole extra memo?" Sam asked sarcastically. "My heart bleeds for you."

"The best you can do is _let_ her take her own sick leave? She had a toddler still in diapers."

Agent Hanna summarized, "She's a highly trained law enforcement agent."

"Was"

Undeterred, he persisted. "It cost this country, your country, over a million dollars to train her. And you want to throw that away just because there's nothing in the manual to cover her taking care of her own flesh-and-blood children?"

Callen stood behind the sofa, fuming. Fortunately, the monitor sprang to life, Eric's face dominating one window, as if he'd stuck his head into some wormhole.

"Sorry to interrupt, guys, but you're gonna wanna see this."

As he pulled back from the camera, another window opened, showing one of the news feeds. "Breaking reports out of Brentwood. Ahmed Al-Sanjouri, twenty-three, a UCLA Engineering student from Algeria, was killed last night. His father is a leader of the Peace and Progress party in Algeria, which had just gained a majority in parliament for its pro-American stance. Police and federal authorities are investigating."

Marshall commented, "And I thought he was just some Arab kid trying to export our technology."

"Actually, he came to UCLA to work with a professor who's a pioneer in getting freshwater from sea water," cut in Eric.

Sam continued, "See, to help his country grow its own food. Keep his countrymen from starving."

Callen brought them back to the current situation. "Now that it's on the news everywhere, now that she realizes she shot the wrong guy, she'll go under cover. We need to pick her up now."

Marshall sounded magnanimous. "I'll come along. I may be able to talk to her."

Kensi, watching from the ops center, observed, "That's the last thing we need."

Deeks agreed, "Right. If he were trying to talk me back from a ledge, I'd rather go over, just so I didn't have to deal with him."

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, Kensi's Malibu, Sam's Charger, and Marshall's Expedition descended on the Hamilton-Wadstrom household. As Sam made his way to the garage and Kensi and Deeks circled to the back yard, Marshall and Callen marched up the front steps. "Federal Agents. Come out with your hands up!"<p>

No response. When Vince Marshall slammed his shoulder against the door, it disintegrated, hurtling him into a waiting headlock from little Lisa Hamilton. He doubled over, though, tumbling her across his back and onto the floor. Hamilton kept pulling, bringing his head squarely through the foyer's drywall.

From the floor she kicked. Her shoe grazed the inside of his thigh, which steered the force directly to his groin. She slid out from under him, sprang to her feet, and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back until it popped. She turned him to use his body as a shield from Callen's bullets.

Callen tried to calm the situation. "We don't need any trouble here. We just need to ask you some questions."

Unfortunately, it was Marshall who replied. "What are you doing negotiating? Shoot the crazy…"

Hamilton took advantage of the dissention by breaking toward the kitchen, dragging Marshall as far as the arch of the hall. Together, they were too wide to fit down the hall, so she banged his head—one last time—into the wall before releasing. She dashed through the kitchen and into the garage, pulling her pistol from her belt as she went. As she burst into the garage, she caught sight of Sam Hanna waiting with pistol drawn. The minivan, backed into the garage, offered protection as she ran behind, opened the driver's-side door, and squeezed off three wayward shots.

By this time Callen had clambered over Marshall's crumpled form and emerged from the kitchen. She turned to shoot him and her hand, braced against the windshield, became a perfect disarming target for Sam.

Automatically, he took the shot, shattering both hand bones and windshield.

* * *

><p>Her hand in bulky bandages and splints, Lisa Hamilton sulked at Kensi Blye in the interview room in the boatshed. Detective Deeks paced behind his partner's chair as they tried to get the complete statement. Outside the room, Agents Callen and Hanna watched on the monitor.<p>

"You saw Al-Sanjouri and you thought he was Gareshi." Kensi flung the two slightly different pictures onto the table.

Deeks continued, "You couldn't get any response at the FBI, so you hunted him down, and you shot him!"

"Why? What were you thinking?" she asked.

"He was a terrorist."

"But he wasn't!"

"He was an engineering student at UCLA."

"And pro-American."

"Relaxed with his friends by playing the trumpet in a jazz band."

"Volunteered at the soup kitchen."

Deeks leaned down to read the file, resting his left hand on the left side of Kensi's chair. He completed her sentence. "At the Unitarian _Church_."

"How was I supposed to know that?"

"You weren't. It wasn't your job."

"It was…. Used to be. It used to be I'd make a ten-million-dollar drug bust before lunch, get back on the street and catch a bank robber before dinner. Now, it's just an endless cycle of diaper changes, play dates, and grocery runs."

Deeks stood back up, dragging his hand up Kensi's arm and along her shoulder. She turned to give him a smile. Lisa watched, and then a smile of triumph broke across her face. "You'll see what I mean, Agent Blye. He's all 'sweet' and 'wonderful,' all 'supportive' and all that junk, but as soon as you drop a litter of his spawn, suddenly he 'didn't think through' how hard parenting is. His 'little bundle of joy' will become your vicious taskmaster and will tear your relationship to shreds! He'll land himself extra surveillance duties, just to get out of the house! So, yeah, when I recognized him as Gareshi, I told Mike and called the local field office. They blew me off."

Deeks was the first to recover from her tirade, so he continued her thought. " 'Cause Gareshi was dead already, but it was all very classified, so they couldn't tell you."

"You wouldn't believe how frustrating it is, now that I'm out of the loop. I've still got the training, and I know what we were working on when I left, but to be just discarded like that… it hurt." After staring at the ceiling for a while, she took a minute to study the Venetian blinds, but then her shoulders slumped as she shook her head. "I shot the wrong man…the wrong man…a bad shoot."

* * *

><p>The team gathered in the bullpen after the case was closed, and compared notes for the coming evening. Callen asked, "Anyone up for a beer?"<p>

"Sorry, G. I promised Michele I'd be home on time tonight."

Kensi looked at her partner, then answered, "Sorry, we're having a quiet night tonight."

Deeks looked up, "I like the sound of that! Say no more!"

Sam rolled his eyes, and said, "Down, boy!"

"I said 'quiet night,' Deeks!"

* * *

><p>Later that night, Kensi and Deeks lounged on her sofa after finishing a take-out pizza. He grabbed for her hands, trying to pull her up. "Come on to bed, Kensalicious."<p>

She resisted. "I'm sorry, Marty. I'm just thinking about what Lisa Hamilton said."

"What, that whole 'litter of my spawn' thing? 'Cause I don't think I like the comparisons there. Am I a dog? They have litters. Or am I the devil, cause he's one of the few we talk about 'spawn' of. That and fish, and I eat lots of fish, but myself I don't spawn. Maybe I'm a devil dog. That could work."

Kensi turned away, sideways on the couch. " 'Devil Dogs' is a nickname the Marines have had since World War One, you heathen. Don't you dare put yourself in that company!"

"Oooh, harsh! What put you in this mood, Wikipedia?"

Kensi just glared, so he sat back down. "How could Lisa Hamilton's one honest mistake get under your skin so much?" He rested his hand on her cheek, and she nuzzled against it.

"Yeah, it's just that she painted a picture of what things could be like for me…for us." She paused, and took a sip of her nearly full, nearly flat beer. "I've always wanted to be a federal agent, but that shouldn't mean I have to sacrifice family life for it."

"Right, it shouldn't. And you should be able to continue your career through your parenting just as much as I should."

"But I don't want to be a bad parent."

"You won't be. I've seen bad parents, and you're not one of them: never will be, not by a long shot."

"Don't give me that. I know I won't be a criminally bad parent, but I don't want to be even a slightly bad parent."

"You won't be even slightly bad. You'll be the best parent ever, 'cause your Kensi, and you do everything awesome."

"It isn't a contest, Marty. I don't want to be the best; I just want to be honestly good." She slouched lower on the sofa. "But, … but I'm exhausted as is. I can't imagine coming home from a day like today by way of some daycare center, then struggling to get a child into bed. Or homework. God help me when it comes to helping with homework."

"I'd be there, too, Kens. Count on me to help."

He tried to pull her into him, but she pushed away from him with surprising vehemence. " 'Help'? That's all you'd do is 'help'? I don't want your 'help.' I want you to do fifty percent, not as a favor to me, but 'cause it's part of parenting. It's fifty percent your kid, so it'll be fifty percent your job!"

The detective sat, recoiling from the reprimand. But then, Martin Deeks, Counselor at Law, perked up. " 'It is,' 'it will be'?" he quoted. "The simple present tense and simple future tense. Not 'it would be,' which is conditional. Kensi Blye, do you have some news for me?"

She just rolled her eyes. "No, no, no! Don't go there… especially not tonight. I'm not pregnant; It just slipped out."

"Okay, Kens. I'm sorry. I just jumped the gun. Got distracted." He cuddled her into his chest. "I'm sorry." After five minutes of silence thawing between them, a 747 on final approach disturbed their reverie, and they quietly padded off to bed.

* * *

><p>"Lisa Hamilton," said Sam Hanna, as much to his bourbon as to his wife. "She married Mike Wadstrom a few years ago."<p>

"Mike was in that class, too," Michele chipped in.

"FBI cut her loose after their kids came. Vince Marshall was her super. Then she meets this kid who looks like somebody who was on the ten-most-wanted list, and she ambushed him in an alley. Basically a case of a bad shoot."

"Vince Marshall. He's a piece of work. More than once, I wanted to knee that sexist piece of hmmm in the groin." For Michele Hanna, Memory Lane was not all a happy place.

"Will a kick work? That's what Hamilton landed there. He's at Mercy General tonight, just for observation."

"He probably deserved it, so I can't say I'm sorry for him." She grabbed for his bourbon. "But what got you in this mood? You're normally so healthy."

He pulled the bourbon out of her reach. "It's what she said afterward that got me, about life after the Bureau. Gave me more sympathy for you."

"It's not 'after the Bureau' for me: I'm going back."

"In fact you've already been back. Helped us get Sidorov." He paused and shook his head. "But the changes as you take time out for kids. I just can't imagine them."

"Well, maybe this will help you understand. Barney used to be the code name for a North Korean double agent. Now, he just covers for me while I fold the laundry."

They chuckled. "Yeah. It sounded like she was going stir-crazy with the parenting thing. After she saw this guy, she kinda took on a secret identity."

"What? Mild-mannered play-date mommy by day, secret agent by night?"

"Basically," Sam confirmed. They sat quietly for a while, while Sam nursed on his drink. "Now that Cora is in first grade, we should start looking at what we'll do when you go back to the Bureau."

"Yeah. I've been thinking about that, ever since the night in the hotel on the Sidorov case."

"You did seem to get a charge out of undercover life," Sam said with a smirk.

"Not the way that you did." She ran a hand over his chest.

"Ooh. Low blow, Honey!" But he laughed.

After a minute, Michele broke the silence. "And we do need to start saving for college and retirement. I was an agent first and a mother second. Law enforcement is what I do."

"Just like I do. We knew this time would come when we decided to start having kids. I just didn't think it would come so soon." They sat for a while, Sam still studying his glass, Michele staring at the lego that had escaped its bin in the corner.

"Your Mom was so worried when we were on the same op," Michele finally said.

"You told her?"

"She figured it out. I seemed to have known too much about your injuries after we took down Sidorov."

"She'd make a good detective."

"Miss Marple, Jessica Fletcher, Hetty Wainthrop, and Beryl Hanna: she'd be in good company." Another comfortable laugh.

"She has a good point though," Sam confirmed. "It'd be bad enough if something were to happen to one of us, but both of us? What would happen to the kids?"

"We've already got the wills written."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I've got to like it." Sam shook his head. "Cora is just so energetic that I think she'd wear Mamma out. Little Ber, too."

"Little Ber isn't so little any more, either. There's a note from school in the roll-top. They just started the 'family life' unit."

"That's a scary thought." He punctuated his remark with a large draw from his drink. "Mamma's not ready to go through parenting a teenager again, either."

"She's a good kid. I don't think she'll give too much trouble on that."

"Me neither. It's just, I think we should be the ones there to help them through…all of it." He waved his glass expansively.

Finally, Sam took the last sip of his bourbon. He set the glass on the end table and pulled Michele closer. "On the other hand, I'd hate not having your back."

Michele pulled away so she could look square at him. "I can take care of myself!"

"Said the woman who ended up hanging from sheet plastic twenty stories up!" In the shocked silence, he rubbed his knuckles. "No, that was low. That was the bourbon talking. What I meant was I know you can. It's just that I know how callous the Bureau was with you last time. And the statistics are that careless partners can't be reformed. The partners of sixty percent of all injured agents have been written up for careless conduct before."

They sat for a while, but then Michele stood up and reached for Sam's hands. "C'mon to bed. We need to think about this some more."

* * *

><p>The next morning, Sam sprawled into the chair before Hetty's desk, water bottle in hand and aspirin already at work. Instead of greeting him, she narrowed her eyes. "I tend to prefer black China tea, Mr. Hanna, but for your condition, I'm inclined to recommend a blend of Barnstead peppermint and Saxony chamomile."<p>

He just nodded. Once Hetty's tea ceremony was completed, Sam took a sip, and then broke the silence. "I'm starting to worry about Michele going back to the Bureau. I'd like her to be safe and have a good partner, and we're both concerned about being in the field at the same time."

"I thought that was it." She reached into a folder on her desk and extracted a paper. "Perhaps this will interest you, then. It seems that after the problems with Blackwater in Afghanistan, and with Inman out here, FLETC is reluctant to outsource tactical training much longer: too much opportunity for foul play. The NSC is recommending that FLETC set up its own TRP school. It turns out they're the ones who hold the lease on Inman's facility, so if they saw the right proposal, it could end up out here."

It took an inordinate effort for Sam to furrow his brow in skepticism, "Yeah, but Michele?"

"Would be very welcome here, and you'd be exceptional leading the TRP's and teaching advanced hand-to-hand." Sam's eyes widened, so Hetty continued. "Considering your condition, Ms. Jones will be going into the field with Mr. Callen today, because I'd like a draft proposal on my desk by the close of business."

The news chased the bloodshoot out of Sam's eyes more effectively than all the chamomile in all the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi,

**Thanks for checking in on my story, "No Good Choices." Since there was a lot of interest in it, I decided to extend the story with a story arc I've been planning for a while, but never had the nerve to post. ****Caution: the structure will get weird. How weird? Well, check out my "Hetty's Final Project" especially the chapters by "the Gardengnome." **

**Regardless of who the main characters are, the "No Good Choices" theme colors each chapter. I'll update the character list as I go. **

**By the way, the "Lean In" movement influences both these stories. I'm not sure I did "Lean In" justice, but I tried. And leave a review, too!**

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, Callen barreled into the bullpen and flung his bag onto his desk. "Anybody seen Sam?"<p>

Nell, by the espresso machine, replied, "I saw him at Hetty's desk a few minutes ago. We'll need him soon. We're about ready to brief you guys on this morning's case."

Hetty materialized behind Callen. "Actually, he's in the library today, on a different project. Ms. Jones, you'll be in the field with Mr. Callen today."

The agent in question was walking by the coffee station at the time, and stopped to try to give Nell a high five, but she just cowered in shock. "Me?" she mouthed, then aloud said, "Hetty, are you sure? Are there any questions with my certifications?"

"Everything is in order, except your hand-to-hand, Ms. Jones. In my book, the skills you've already shown are worth three certifications. If you promise not to get in a fistfight with a six-foot-eight bruiser I don't know about, you'll be fine for the day."

"Hetty, I don't try to get in fistfights with six-foot-eight bruisers, either. They just sometimes find me," Callen objected.

Hetty suspended their objections with one final pronouncement. " 'Brains over brawn,' Mr. Callen. That's probably good advice for both of you."

Still recovering, Nell finished, "I better go up and tell Eric he'll be alone in ops for this one. See you up there, … partner."

After a few minutes, Eric whistled for the depleted team, and they assembled in ops. Nell, however, commanded the floor through the briefing and directed their attention to the probationary driver's license on the big screen. "Meet Micah Hendstetter, fifteen, who was kidnapped on his way to Anaheim East High School this morning. This footage is from a gas station security camera." One kid, ambling and reluctant; one panel van, free of marks; three thugs in ski masks, completing their work in just under ten seconds: It had all the hallmarks of a classic professional grab.

Kensi asked, "But Hetty, how did we get the assignment? Where's our jurisdiction?"

"This came directly from the office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. Apparently, the Pentagon knows something we don't. Speculating about what it might be is above all our pay grades." She gave a warning glance, then gestured for Nell.

Nell continued. "The police are waiting with the parents, who work together at Arvin Research. They'll be expecting us."

Callen dished out the assignments, "Kensi, Deeks: go wait with the parents. Set up for a ransom call to any of their phones. Nell and I are working together today. We'll go to their house."

"Actually, Mr. Callen, Arvin Research is quite similar to our old friends Brindel Research. I suspect Ms. Jones will be more helpful there."

"Fair enough, Hetty. Nell and I will wait with the parents. Kensi and Deeks, check out the house."

Nell completed the plan. "We've got the parent's permission to pick the lock."

One previously-shattered doorjamb made such niceties completely unnecessary. Guns drawn, Kensi and Deeks cleared the house and converged on Micah's bedroom. The mess measured only one standard deviation beyond a normal teenager's, but a dozen computer cables advertised the laptop-sized void on his desk. Kensi reported in to ops. "Eric, the computer is missing. Somebody broke in here, and we think they took it about the same time they got the kid."

"I'll check his cyber-footprint," Eric volunteered. "It may be the kidnapping is related to something he's doing online."

Kensi interrupted, "And see what Kaleidoscope can pull up on the break-in."

Eric's voice rattled over the speakerphone. "Give me a break, here, guys. I'm flying solo today. It may take some time."

Deeks butted in with a leer, "Uh-oh! Is a certain technical operator missing a certain someone today?"

"When Kensi was in Afghanistan,…"

She broke in with vehemence. "Mellow out, guys! Eric, is there any chance there's any worthwhile hardware left behind, a thumb drive or something?"

Deeks started his search right away. "They already searched the desk drawer. Bedside table's …Hello!" He pulled out a strip of condoms, and counted them, "Eleven."

"At least he was careful," Kensi observed.

Deeks laughed. "No, optimistic. Betcha a dollar condom number twelve is in his wallet, even now."

"Whatever." Kensi shook her head.

Eric's voice spoke up again over the cell phone. "Err… If you'd rather look for computer hardware, try the closet shelf, beside any of his boxes, and in the corner."

Kensi brought her flashlight up to the closet shelf, and was checking each crevice, before jamming her gloved hand into the last one. "Thumb drive, right where you said!" She approached the phone, "How'd you know that, Eric?"

He gave a laugh, "It's a geek thing, Kensi. Go ahead and upload it."

A minute later, he confirmed. "Got it. I'll see what it says. By the way, Kaleidoscope was able to follow the van on its way to and from the kidnapping. Looks like their base is a warehouse in Korea-town. Sending you that address, now."

Meanwhile, at Arvin Research, Callen, Nell, two FBI technicians, and two angry Ph.D. parents crammed into one conference room.

"So now we wait?" Dr. Laura Hendstetter asked, angry. "That's it? That's all?"

"Honey, this is what these people do. They're experts in this. They'll bring Micah home safe." Dr. Brandon Hendstetter tried to put his arm around her, but she pushed him away.

"Actually, Dr. Hendstetter," Nell soothed, "We've got ten people from LAPD working on it, and I think this is the best team from NCIS: we've got an amazing tech guru back at the office working on it."

"I'll tell Eric you said that," Callen interrupted. He was standing in a corner, and everyone's back was to him, so he could give Nell a grin as he said it.

Nell continued, though, unperturbed, "and another awesome NCIS team is out in the field tracking down leads…and coordinating with LAPD."

"But why? Why didn't you give Micah a ride to school today?" Brandon asked.

"Because I had that LMX-5 meeting this morning. It was really important, and Micah likes to walk. Says it clears his head. I would have asked you but you had to be in for testbedding the SRU. But wait—why do I have to be in charge of school anyhow? Who are you to be getting on my case?"

"I know, honey. I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated."

Nell and Callen looked at each other, and after a few silent head-jerks, Callen was steering Brandon to one corner, Nell steering Laura to the other.

"Listen, Laura. We know it's frustrating to wait, but we're all on the same team here. I'm sure you both love Micah very much, and love each other, so don't say anything under stress you'll regret later."

Callen, overhearing, gave the same warning to Brandon. "She's right. There'll be time to sort things out later. Let us help you get Micah back. You'll get through this."

Meanwhile, at ops, Eric took Deeks' call when he called back in and said, "This warehouse is empty. There's a few fresh wrappers here. Smells spicy. Yup: Korean beef, I think. They must have left through a back alley: probably long gone by now. What did you find out about the break-in at the kid's house?"

"I'm sorry, guys. Kaleidoscope tracked a Caddy back to that same location." Eric sounded drained, and the clock hadn't struck eleven yet.

Kensi's voice turned consoling. "It happens. The bad guys didn't give us another lead. No need to apologize to us, Eric."

"The good news is that I was able to track the company that leased the warehouse: no small feat, if I say so myself. Leased by a shell company registered in Alabama as a front for a company in Saskatchewan, then Estonia, Benin, Uzbekistan, and finally an account in Macao that the British and the Japanese say holds funds for the North Korean 'People's Information Bureau:' their CIA."

"So, I'd bet this trip through the rabbit hole of international finance means you're not done with that thumb drive Kensi uploaded to you." Considered, synthetic sympathy strained at Deeks's voice.

"Try this on for size. It seems young Mr. Hendstetter was a hacker with some skill behind him. He protected his file pretty well, but once I broke through his encryption, I found he'd hacked into the Marine Corps Forces, Korea, and the garrison at Yongsan."

"That would explain the Corps' interest in the case. But why? Why did this kid hack here in particular?"

"Let me get back to you on that," Eric mumbled. "I just got into the files a minute before you called."

"Okay, see where it takes us. Why this kid and this unit, and did it get him kidnapped?"

Deeks completed Kensi's thought. "It would tie in with all the other Korean connections, too. Korea-town, the Korean beef, and the Korean money behind this op."

Eric volunteered, "We can ask his parents, too. Nell and Callen are still waiting with them for the ransom call. I can patch 'em in, make this a conference call."

He tapped his earbud again. "Nell, We're seeing a lot of connections to Korea, specifically the Marine Corps garrison at Yongsan there, which Micah was hacking into. Do the folks know anything about that?"

"I'll ask." Turning to them, she parroted, "Mrs. Hendstetter, why is Micah interested in the Marines in Korea?"

But her husband answered, "Korea? No idea, why?"

"Wait, honey, isn't that where Joe Simpson is stationed?"

"Joe Simpson? Who's he?"

"He graduated from Micah's school last year, joined the Marines, and is now serving in Korea, thank God."

"Why 'thank God'?" Callen interrupted. Listening in from ops, Eric already had Joe's Marine Corps file on the big screen.

Mrs. Hendstetter gave a shudder. "It could be the Middle East."

"Fair enough. But why would Micah be following Joe?" Callen continued.

"Simpson,…Simpson…. Oh, that's right. Is Julia Simpson still in Micah's class at school?" Mr. Hendstetter asked.

"That's his little sister, I think, so yeah, she is at East. Micah used to talk about her all the time, but just this school year he stopped. I'd been trying to figure out why."

"Here's one possibility. Is Micah seeing anyone?" Nell asked. "Does he have a date for the prom?"

"No, but I'm not sure I see the connection, and I'm his mom."

Nell explained, "What I'm thinking is that Micah's become romantically 'interested in' Julia, and is keeping his interest from you two, but sees 'checking up on' her brother as part of his strategy for her."

Callen interrupted. "Eric, start checking up on that: is it Joe that Micah focused on? How much did he know? How good is his hacking?"

"And we'll go check in with the Simpsons," Kensi continued.

"Actually, it may be better to start with Julia, who's probably at the school." Callen interjected.

"Got it."

"So now it's back to jumpy waiting?" Laura asked.

"I'm afraid so," Callen confirmed.

Another office, more crowded than the last. The sign on the door said, "Mrs. Rivera, guidance," but clearly Kensi was running this meeting. Kensi, Deeks, and a flustered Mrs. Rivera gathered around one standoffish teenage girl.

"We're here about Micah Hendstetter." Kensi started,

"What's your relationship with him? Are you dating?"

Julia rolled her eyes, "He wishes." Kensi and Deeks exchanged glances. "He always wanted to help me on my math homework, and did help me on one Computer Tech project. He's really good at that."

"That's what we figured," Deeks said.

"He's been kidnapped," Kensi continued, eliciting two gasps.

"But please, keep that quiet, for everybody's sake," Deeks continued. "Did you talk much about your brother Joe?"

"Yeah, I told him Joe'd been deployed to the DMZ and last week he brought me pictures."

"What kind of pictures?"

"He told me not to say anything, said it was 'really classified.' But I thought they were just from their Facebook page." She punctuated the comment with a signature eye-roll.

While Mrs. Rivera's eyes got as big as Frisbees, Kensi put an end to the Facebook idea. "Julia, they're the Few and the Proud. They don't do Facebook." Composing herself, she continued, "Did you tell anybody?"

Deeks tried a different angle. "Did he say how he got them?"

"He said he hacked into some server, but I wouldn't have understood how he did it, if that's what you're asking."

"Don't worry. We wouldn't have understood how he hacked either. We've got a guy for that," Deeks reassured.

Kensi worked to regain control of the meeting. "So did you?"

"Did she what, Agent?" Mrs. Rivera clarified.

"Did you tell anybody?"

"Good grief, No! Like I said, I thought it came from Facebook."

"Are you two thinking Micah got kidnapped because he was able to hack into the Marine Corps servers?" Mrs. Rivera prodded. Her voice sounded appropriately worried and respectful, but an element of pride poked around the edges.

"That's an angle we're investigating. Julia, did you notice anything suspicious lately."

Julia just shook her head, but Mrs. Rivera interrupted, "Now that you mention it, I saw a white van outside. Something about it made me suspicious."

At that instant, Kensi's phone sounded. It was Eric, so she put him on speaker. A breathless Eric dove right in. "I've got Nell and Callen on the line, too. I had set a canary-watch on the website for Joe's unit in Korea. It just sent me an alert about somebody hacking into it from a Starbucks in Korea-town. The van's parked outside, but nobody went inside. Looks like they're boosting wi-fi from the parking lot."

After some quick, shouted that-must-be-it's and thanks-for-your-time's and a gotta-go Kensi and Deeks were sprinting for her car.

Meanwhile, Callen and Nell sprinted out of the Arvin office, and he was still shouting instructions into his cell phone. "Eric, Call LAPD and the FBI. See if there's any unmarked cars nearby…. I want this done quietly. … We can do the full hostage rescue if it comes to it, but what's most important is getting everyone out of there alive—even the kidnappers."

They climbed into Callen's car, and as soon as the siren fired up, Nell exhilarated, "Federal agent, eh? I've gotta get me a set of police lights. This is the only way to go!"

"We'll have to cut off the siren four blocks from the scene, and the lights two blocks away, but I guess you're right. This is kinda fun. Seriously, though, we'll probably be first on the scene. Kensi and Deeks are all the way up in East Anaheim. You ready for some hand-to-hand?"

"I guess I'd better be."

"No, seriously. If you aren't comfortable, we'll just wait for backup."

"I'll be fine. The average North Korean male stands five-foot-five. That's just an inch taller than me, but I'll have the element of surprise with me. Let me check something." She clicked on her phone. "Hey Eric, will we be able to pop the locks on that van, like you did for Kensi on that car-theft ring?"

"I'll have to look into it. Give me a minute. By the way, it looks like there are two kidnappers in the van with Micah."

"Got it," and she disconnected.

Callen looked at her sideways. "I didn't get a chance to ask you. Did Eric say 'canary watch'?"

"Yup," Nell smirked. "Like 'canary in a coal-mine,' remember? That's our term for a Trojan we place on a friendly firewall. Eric called because it sent an alert to us when it got bypassed. It's actually really cool code. The guy is good."

"Again, I'll tell him you said that." Now it was Callen's turn to smirk.

Nell's phone buzzed, and she put Eric on the speakerphone so Callen could hear. "We've got the remote entry. Give me a signal when you want the locks popped."

"What's your surveillance angle, Eric?" asked Callen.

"My best view is from the Starbucks' parking lot security cam on the northwest corner."

"Could you send us a screen cap?"

Eric tapped a few buttons, then confirmed, "Comin' up."

Callen suddenly turned serious, "Here we are." He turned off the light, and then slowed down to blend in with traffic. Finally, they pulled into the parking lot for the pet shop on the corner.

"You've been studying that picture pretty hard, there, Pixie."

"Yup. I wanted to see what we're up against."

"Here's what I figure the plan will be," Callen said looking at the phone. "We'll approach the van through its blind spot, then you'll sneak around to the driver's side door."

"How 'bout if I slide underneath."

"That'll work. As soon as you come up, signal Eric and he'll pop the locks. The goal is to pull the driver onto the pavement and cuff 'im. I'll come in from the back and secure the second kidnapper."

Sam, on a break from his library project, joined Eric and Hetty to watch from the ops center. Nell and Callen wrestled kidnappers from the van to the pavement in less than ten seconds: one very rattled teenager rescued without a shot being fired.

Agent Hanna joined the team in the bullpen as they wound down from the case, Callen trying in vain to rally his charges for a pub-stop. Sam, one bloodshot memory giving him a final retch, politely declined. Kensi and Deeks, too, turned down the offer, then left with a giggle appropriate to a pair of hormonal teenagers. "Nell, that move under the van really pulled it off. Even Sam couldn't have done that."

In the tunnel already, Sam turned, "What's this, G.?"

"All I'm saying is that the suspension was a little low on the van we had to assault today. Even by themselves, your pectorals wouldn't have fit underneath." Sam mollified, Callen turned back to Nell. "So, what do you say, partner? A beer to celebrate?"

"Sorry, G. Something they said on that case kinda rattled me, and I'm gonna need some alone-time to process it. But count me in the next time the team's going out."

Eric sounded concerned. "What's this, Nell? You think this was part of a bigger plot? A hunch you're going to follow up on?"

"Nope, nothing like that. Just let it slide, guys."

Callen relented, "Well, let us know if there's something up. Again, you did good out there." He turned his attention to Eric, who looked up from the surf report on his tablet, only to cower under Callen's stare. "Eric, we work with a bunch of lightweights. You'll have to make up for the rest of the team tonight. What d'ya say? O'Reilly's in fifteen?"

"Sorry, Callen. The surf's up, it's three hours 'til dark, and it's been a long time since I've been out. Rain-check?" and he nearly sprinted for the door.

After Callen watched Nell leave, he gave a wave to Hetty, saying, "I know the rule, Hetty. 'Only one drink when you're drinking alone.' See you tomorrow."

Hetty waved in benediction, "Until then, Mr. Callen."

For the next hour, a red Mini wandered the streets of Los Angeles, its driver careful but immersed in her thoughts. After the path converged on Venice Beach, Nell's focus finally emerged from her musings, startled by her car's subconscious trend. She parked, grabbed her purse, and continued on foot, scanning the surf for the familiar face that had drawn her there, as if by magic. Once she saw him, she continued past, to a bench midway between Eric and his car.

From that safe distance, she sat and watched, both Eric and the other surfers, both swimmers and joggers, both sunset and surf, until Eric had finished his surfing. So intent had he been that he hadn't noticed her at all. He reacted with a start when her bench finally came within his view.

"Nell! What a surprise! I wish I'd known. I would have come in earlier. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, Eric. I was still on that alone-time."

" 'Was,' past tense? Does that mean I can join you now?"

"I'd like that."

They sat in a companionable silence for a minute, until Eric felt both comfortable enough and uncomfortable enough to break it. "At the Mission, you said you had to think about some things. Can you share them with me, now? I'm a good listener."

She smiled, the first smile since noontime. "You're the best, Beale. So here's the deal." He raised his eyebrows; for the first time in twenty years that tiring rhyme had made him smile. "At Arvin Research, Micah's mom and dad nearly came to blows over mom not taking the kid to school today. Ten years a latchkey kid, fifteen years since her maternity leave ended, and she's still the one to cart him around. Here they are, same title, and she's the one in charge of the kid's logistics. Heck, they'd have the same seniority with the company if it weren't for her maternity leave."

Eric tilted his head sympathetically. "You're right, it doesn't seem fair."

"Maybe I'm overreacting, Eric, reading too much into one comment. Maybe Dad does the laundry and the groceries."

"Maybe, but I've been thinking about that kind of thing with other talented couples I've seen, too."

"Yup. When we rule the world we'll make sure dads pull their weight around the house, even for power couples."

"Deal!"

"Deal!" The smile faded from her face. "But what do we do in the meantime? How did we even get in this situation, where so much of the housework is 'a woman's job'?"

"It seems," Eric replied, "and I'm not making apologies for it, and it's not at all justified today, like it's mostly historical. Like it can be traced to the 1950's one-income family model, and from there back to our agrarian frontier. Dad would hunt and wrangle the herd and bust the sod, while Mom would tend the garden and the young'uns."

"Barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen," Nell concluded grimly.

"Yuck," Eric agreed. "So I can't help wondering what life would be like today if we hadn't gone through that stage."

"Me neither. Maybe that would help people see their way past some of the remaining barriers for women."

"We can hope, Nell. We can hope."

"What this world needs is more good male feminists like you, Eric."

"I try to be good, Nell. I try."

After a few minutes silence, she looked around. "I can't believe how dark it's gotten."

"That is what tends to happen after the sun goes down," Eric teased. "Come on. I'll walk you to your car."

"Eric, you don't have to. My car's up that way, and yours is down that way, and you're covered with salt and sand and I've already taken up enough of your time."

"But you've run out of conjunctions, and it's already dark, and there've been a couple purse-snatchings here lately, and it would be a pleasure for me anyhow."

"How 'bout you drive me to my car? That'll solve the problems, and save us both some walking."

"Sold."

As Eric pulled his car beside Nell's, he asked, "So what's your plan from here? I've taken up so much of your time, and you're probably hungry for your dinner."

"I figure I'll curl up with a small bowl of pasta and a large bowl of butter pecan, then read fanfiction 'til I turn in."

As Eric wheeled 'round his car to get Nell's door, a plan brought a smile to his face.

"Thanks again for listening to me, Eric. You've been great. See you tomorrow." Then, without thinking, without her hands giving her mind time to evaluate the consequences, she reached up, grabbed Eric's shoulder, and pulled his face down so she could kiss his cheek.

"See you tomorrow." Then he shut her car door. Stunned and confused, he stood in the lot rubbing the stubble of his cheek until her car turned inland and its taillights disappeared behind the souvenir shop on the corner.

* * *

><p><strong>AN2: I'll try to update soon, but there's something funny going on with my fanfiction account. Bear with me.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This chapter came to me rather suddenly as I thought about the season finale. I decided to put it into my series ahead of the (nearly finished) chapter I had been writing.

Here's a note of special thanks to Motsie of Atlantis, belatedly. They'd given me advice on the previous chapter.

Standard, blanket, disclaimer: I do not own NCIS: LA or its characters. (I didn't when I wrote the previous chapters, either!)

* * *

><p>A few days after the submarine case wrapped up, Nell and Eric were in the ops center shutting down the systems after a minor robbery case, when Nell got a text message on her phone.<p>

KN93T5Z18ELQ5CPW

"That's weird," she said, as much to her phone as to Eric.

"What's weird?" he asked.

"I just got this text message." She showed him her phone.

Eric booted one of the computers. "Forward it to ops. Let's trace it." Less than a minute later, they had their answer. "Hmm. Arlington, Virginia. The cell tower is in the hotel district."

The pneumatic door hissed open, and Eric pulled the map from his computer screen just in time.

Without preface, Granger started in. "Good, you're here, Beale." He held up a thumb drive. "I just got a file on my secure e-mail server, but it's encrypted. I need you to break in to it." He turned to go, but Nell called him back and held out her phone.

"Assistant Director, I just got this text message. It should be just a minute."

As Nell and Granger watched, Eric typed the key into the decryption software. They double-checked his typing, and then he dragged in the file.

Within seconds, two separate one-page letters covered the big screen, each as large as a movie poster.

The first was Hetty's letter of resignation, complete with several dates hand-written, then crossed out. The second letter, over the signatures of Hetty, Leon Vance and the Secretary of the Navy, was addressed to Nell Jones, and appointed her acting Operations Manager. How one image, of one letter, can suck the air out of a room will never be clear, but it did. As the men stared at the letter, Nell buckled against Eric for support.

Even in the lights of the Ops center, Eric could see the crimson creeping across Granger's forehead. He turned back to the letter, and that's when he noticed one blank line in the signature portion, so he stepped closer to the screen to read it. "Nell Felice Jones." He quickly printed out a copy and brought it from the printer to the table, where he grabbed her a pen. "You ready, Nell?"

"As I'll ever be." She took a breath, grabbed the pen and signed it without looking up. As she dashed off to the secure fax machine, Granger softened briefly, looked at Eric and said, "She'll need all the help you can give, Beale."

"Sir, she's excellent at what she's done. Yes, she'll need help, but anyone stepping into Hetty's role would need help: from all of us."

Granger turned on his heel and left ops, muttering, "God help us!"

When Nell came back, it looked like she'd aged thirty years. "Is he gone?"

"Yes." He thought for a minute. "Earlier today he said something about going to Washington. I wonder if that's still on."

"We'll find out tomorrow."

"I'm afraid you're right, Boss."

Nell recoiled, "No, Eric. Please don't talk like that. I'm still Nell; I still want to be Nell. You never called Hetty 'boss.' "

"Okay, I'm sorry, Nell. What I'm trying to say is that I'm happy for you. Really, I am."

"Thanks. I'm sorry, too. It's just, my world's been tipped sideways, and I need to adjust. I was over-sensitive."

"Got it. Can I walk you to your car, Nell?"

"I've got a lot to do now. There are some files I need to look over. I'll head home later."

"Can I get you anything before I go, Rockstar?"

"Do we have those Oreos around, still?"

"If not, I'll head out to the market."

By the time Eric returned with the treats from his locker, Nell had set up her laptop in the electronics lab and extracted the thumb drive from the back of Hetty's brooch. "Coffee, too?" he asked.

"No, I'll be fine. See you tomorrow, P…Eric."

While Nell sat in the electronics lab reading through the files Hetty had left her, (Training files, sections of the supervisor's handbook, and the précis from one highly-classified, long-running case) Eric tossed and turned in his bed. Finally, unable to sleep, he vented his frustrations on the dusty weight set that had scowled at him from its corner ever since he'd bought it in a fit of optimism four months ago.

"_No_…two…_dating_…three…_boss_…four…._Best_… five…_ever_…six…_knew_…seven… _rockstar_… eight… _partner_."

"_Why_…two…_didn't_…three…_I_…four…_ask_…five…_So_…six…_long_…seven…_Now_…eight…_gone_…"

About one o'clock they each finished. Nell cautiously stepped into the lot and dragged herself home, while Eric took a quick shower and returned to his bed.

Nell woke early from her restless slumber and easily allowed herself to abandon hope of more sleep. She drank her coffee and ate her breakfast in the inky darkness, then stumbled to her shower. She dressed, then stepped to her mirror and looked into her jewelry box. There it sat, the brooch Hetty had given her. She'd already removed the thumb drive, read Hetty's instructions, and skimmed through most of the case files, but the brooch itself. What to do with the brooch itself? She couldn't ignore the symbolism. It felt like she would be putting on a sheriff's star. At the same time, it felt like usurping, like she didn't deserve to wear it.

An extra cup of coffee distracted her from her routine, and she drank it staring out into the semi-light of the raising day. Finally, she set a deadline for herself: when the shadow of the phone pole cleared the garbage can across the street, she would decide whether to wear the brooch today.

At the appointed time, she finished her coffee, got up, rinsed her mug and set it in sink, and went back to the mirror by the jewelry box.

Early that morning, at least by the agent's standard time, Agent G. Callen limped down the tunnel into ops. Nell rose from the sofa and stepped around its arm, then asked, "Callen, could you join me in the electronics lab when you've got your coffee?"

"Sure, Nell, but why the electronics lab?"

"So you can bring your coffee." They shared a smile.

A minute later, he stepped nervously over the cables and caught sight of the documents Nell had laid out on the desk. "What are these?"

"That one's Hetty's resignation. This one's my appointment as her acting replacement."  
>"Wow, Nell, congratulations!"<p>

"Please, G., don't congratulate me." She hesitated. "I'll admit, I've thought about this. I may have even wanted it, but not if it cost us Hetty. I didn't even think it would be possible so soon."

"Possible? Nell, it's a natural. You're intelligent, highly trained, successful in the field, and a wizard at analysis! You were our choice, Sam's and mine, when Hetty went to Romania. I can't speak for Eric or Kensi, but I'm sure they were thinking the same thing then. They'll think the same thing now."

"Thanks. But I didn't want it this way. Not like this."

"C'mon, Nell. It's only temporary. Hetty will be back before we know it. Just keep the team functioning like before and keep Granger from bringing in one of his henchmen."

"Like Clookie…." Nell gave a watery chuckle.

"Definitely don't want Clookie." Callen grinned.

Nell drew a breath. "Listen, G. I've been trying to figure out how we'll handle the supervisory dynamics. Let me suggest this. I'll continue up in ops and give the team the analysis like Hetty and I both did before. I'll supervise the team about paperwork, and I'll deal with HQ. But once there's an op, you'll have command."

"Nell, that's not the way it works. As Operations Manager, you're equivalent to Station Chief with the CIA or Special Agent In Charge with the FBI. Until Hetty gets back, you'll be read in to everything she would have been. Because you'll have the clearance and the contact with Washington, you'll have a broader understanding than you had as Intelligence Analyst. You'll watch strategy; I'll run tactics. I'll trust that when you overrule me, you'll have a good reason why. It worked that way with Hetty. You can make it work, too."

"Thanks, Callen," and she stepped in to give him a hug. He held her supportively, but then they recoiled as if they'd both had the same thought at the same time. When she recovered, she continued, "That's another thing. I'd like to keep the team dynamics the same as they were before. There, you weren't hugging your boss; you were giving support to a friend through a challenging time. I'm still the same Little Nell I was before."

" 'Team dynamics,'" Callen quoted. "Does that include the romances?"

"Romance, singular, Callen. And I agree with Hetty. Kensi and Deeks are working well together. I see no reason to split them up."

"Okay, Nell," Callen braced himself, "but I could see Eric curling up in a corner, shutting down, if he thinks your promotion has ended his chances of dating you. You know it hasn't, don't you?"

"Yeah. In her omniscience, Hetty sent me a link to a passage in the supervisor's handbook."

"What, 'Inappropriate Supervisory Contact,' isn't that what they call it?"

"Yes, but how would you know?" She almost gave a knowing smile, but then thought better of it. "Oh, never mind."

"No, it's a fair question, Nell. When Kensi came on board, I—err—entertained the possibility. Hetty sent me to the same passage in the handbook."

"Oh, sorry."

"But that doesn't solve your Eric problem."

Nell brightened, "Could you explain it to him? Man-to-man?"

Callen could only laugh. "Me, your matchmaker? Are you kidding? Not too long ago, Hetty and Sam had to team up to get me on a blind date. I'm the wrong guy to be your cupid!"

"Kensi, Deeks?" There was pleading in her voice.

"Nope: too much opportunity for miscommunication. This is one you'll have to do on your own: 'the head that wears a crown,' as they say. But, yeah, I'm okay with you starting up with Eric, if it happens. And I'll keep the team okay with it, too."

Nell gave an impatient snort, "If."

"Here he comes now. I'll be at the firing range." Callen seemed glad to get out of there.

Had Deeks been there, he would have made a cat-dragged-in joke, or at least asked about a Star Trek marathon. As it was, Nell knew the cause, and felt the sting of knowing, too. "Eric, when you've got your coffee, could you come in here?"

"Umm, yeah. Sure." Trepidation filled every corner of his voice.

When he arrived, a new sheet was on the workbench. "Here, read this. It's from the supervisor's manual." Too tired to object, he simply complied.

_13.2.5 Inappropriate Supervisory Contact: NCIS is a small agency with a large mission. Its offices are spread around the world, and it is to be expected that romantic entanglements sometimes can arise, either between supervisor and supervisee, or between people on the same level. While this can complicate the mission, there is no blanket prohibition on romantic relations._

_: Supervisor-supervisee: Much turns on the motivation behind each partner. If the supervisor intends to use his/her supervisory role to advance the relationship, or if the supervisee intends to use the relationship to advance his/her career, then one of the partners should be transferred. One example of a healthy relationship would be one that continued its trajectory in spite of the promotion of one of its members._

He looked up, hope in his eyes. "Are you saying…?"

"Eric, all it's saying is that if we started up, it wouldn't get us fired."

"And you? What are you saying," he faltered, "by showing me this?"

"What I'm saying is that I'll need your friendship and the best of your technical abilities, now more than ever."

"You could expect nothing less."

"In short, I'll need you to just be you."

Eric breathed a sigh of relief. "I was so worried." He pulled her in for a hug, and she allowed herself to be enveloped by him, his strength, his scent, his love. "I was so worried."

"Are we interrupting something?"

"Deeks! Leave 'em be!"

"Sorry, Kens."

As she made her way to the coffee pot, she scowled at him. "Don't apologize to me. It's Nell and Eric you embarrassed. Now, apologize properly."

"Sorry, guys," he muttered.

"Thanks."

Then Nell whispered to Eric, "As soon as Sam gets in, we'll have the announcement. You can fire up the ops center, see what's come down the pike for us." She returned to her laptop in the electronics lab to teach herself to understand the daily threat matrix briefing.

As soon as Kensi and Deeks had poured their coffee and they returned to bickering at their desks, Sam arrived. Nell wordlessly left for the shooting range. As she went, she sent Eric a one-word text: _Bullpen. _

On the way back, Callen suggested, "Hey, as senior agent, should I break the news? I'll introduce you, then you can say what you need to."

"Sounds like the best plan," Nell confirmed. "I didn't know how I'd phrase it."

All eyes were on Nell and Callen as they came down the stairs to the bullpen, so he just started as he walked. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Hetty's still under investigation in Washington, and to protect us all, she resigned. She did work to manage her legacy, to maintain our leadership. So, let me introduce the acting Operations Manager for the Office of Special Projects, Ms. Nell Jones."

Agents and staff throughout the building first startled, but then those passing through the bullpen joined the team in their cheers and applause. Nell, embarrassed, accepted the applause, but then raised her hands to silence it.

"Thanks, everyone. Thanks. I didn't want it like this, but we're stuck with it. I'll work to keep this team at its best. For me, part of that is keeping the same team dynamics Hetty cultured. I don't know how long this is going to last 'til we get Hetty back, but I'll do the best I can to fill her shoes. I'll protect your backs. Understand, though, that I'm not a mind reader like Hetty is," she winked, "so if you've got a problem, let me know."

Callen spoke up. "Can I add something, Nell?" When she nodded, he continued, "Outsiders are going to try to exploit Hetty's absence. We owe it to Hetty, we owe it to Nell, we owe it to each other, to watch out for other agencies trying to put one over on us."

Deeks cell phone rang. "Deeks, get your butt down here. You caught a case," Lieutenant Bates said without preamble.

"Whatever," Deeks said before hanging up. He announced to the team, "You're right already, Callen. That was LAPD, they want me on a case."

Everyone could see how reluctant he was to leave the team while they were still rattled from the submarine case, not to mention Hetty's absence.

Callen bobbed his head ruefully. "Sounds like he caught word that Hetty's in DC."

Sam agreed, "Right, this is Bates testing you. Trying to get more control over Deeks while Hetty's …." He trailed off, for once at a loss for words.

"Just to be clear, Deeks: you don't want this LAPD case?" Nell asked.

"Absolutely not. My home is here, with you guys."

"And we don't think you would have gotten this call if Hetty were here?"

The team gave a chorus of head-shakes.

"Okay, then let me handle it."

Detective Marty Deeks led Nell through the warren of corridors and cube-farms at LAPD headquarters, but then he stood aside so Nell could knock at the door labeled, "Lt. Frank Bates, Detectives." She had been internally steeling herself for precisely this confrontation: it was almost the first thing that came to mind as she read the appointment letter. Now, however, she relaxed into a cheery, fresh-from-school look.

As the petite woman stepped across his threshold, Bates muttered, "Another firecracker."

They exchanged pleasantries for a minute, but then Nell cut to the chase. "I understand you want Detective Deeks to work a case."

"Right, my detective needs to go undercover for about a month with a supremacist organization: nasty bunch. They've decided to go all vigilante on the border."

"That's a problem, but my team just stopped a drug-running cartel with a submarine. The detective needs some time to recover."

"He's my detective, darling. He needs a break when I say he needs a break."

Deeks, who'd been watching the confrontation with growing trepidation, simply thought, _"You shouldn't have said that, Frankie. You really should _not_ have said that."_

Nell, unperturbed, replied, "Keep in mind that Detective Deeks just led the team that saved two of my agents. They were on an explosives-packed submarine that jihadists were steering through _your_ harbor. We never could tell whether it was headed toward the _Queen Mary _or the port of Long Beach, but do you want to tell me which you'd prefer they'd have struck?" She paused. "Not only that, the sub had carried in half-a-billion dollars worth of cocaine, and Deeks and the team kept that off _your_ streets."

"Since you cleared that case, the timing couldn't be better. While he's with us, that hot partner of his could take care of the paperwork. From what I hear, she may be lucky to just get desk duty."

While Deeks fumed, Nell sat forward in her chair, paused to neaten the cuff of her sweater, and then turned to Bates, "You should understand that I'm an _acting_ operations manager. One consequence of that is that for cases without a _prima facie_ connection to Navy or Marine Corps interests, I'll have to clear our involvement with supervisors back in DC. It's a nasty stack of paperwork, and with the time difference and all the questions they might have, it could take forty-eight hours to get it cleared for us to get involved—if I want it to. So my question for you is whether I should take initiative like Hetty did, and send agents to a crime scene as soon as you call, or whether I should let headquarters put your request through the ringers while your case gets cold."

"You've made your case, Ms. Jones. I'll send someone else. Deeks, send me a copy of the report on that sub case."

As quickly as the tension came, it left. Bates shook Nell's hand and led them to the door. He muttered to Deeks, "Where do the feds find these little witch mama-bears."

"I'm glad she's on my side." Deeks closed the door.

As they emerged into the warm sunlight, Deeks broke the silence. "What was that, the Henrietta Lange School of Negotiation?"

"I hope she'd approve, Deeks."

"She would, Vel…wait, can I still call you Velma?"

"Sure can, Shaggy! Like I said, I've decided I'll try to keep the same team dynamic we had before this happened. It's temporary anyhow, so I don't want things to be weird when she gets back."

The indefatigable detective let loose, "Woo-hoo! You ripped him a new one, there, Velma!"

"Hang on. No gloating: this could come back to hurt us."

"How?"

Nell answered ominously, "Granger."

* * *

><p>AN2: Opinions, friends? Any different challenges Nell would face filling Hetty's shoes?<p>

Memo to the real NCIS, if you're reading: Clookie was just fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Magnitude 7.6 on the Astrid scale

Memo to those less familiar with California geography: Maricopa is a little town 125 miles (200 km) north of central LA. Point Reyes is north of San Francisco Bay, 420 miles (675 km) from LA. The United Way is, sort of, a meta-charity, the fund-raising arm for many member charities together.

Special thanks to Motsie of Atlantis and Melbelle310

Standard Disclaimers apply: I don't own NCIS: LA or its characters.

Soon, I'll be posting "Granger, O." for Granger Appreciation Week that could also appear in this series.

* * *

><p>The full moon of midnight shined along a gulch outside Maricopa, California. A mother fox, preternaturally nervous, had already moved her kits from her burrow into the desiccated bushes directly across the gully. Normally, this California shrubland was alive with rodents, bird's eggs, and even edible snakes, but the drought left her unsuccessful in her hunt, and she had just curled up with her family for a hungry night when it happened. First a gentle rumbling, then a shriek, then utter tumult tore across the land. By the time the shaking stopped, a dust plume emerged from the entrance to their burrow, now twenty feet down the gully. Mother and kids huddled for several minutes, but then gradually turned to cleaning the dust from themselves and each other.<p>

Meanwhile, a mile up the fault-line, seismic sensors had sprung to life and data streamed forth, relayed at the speed of light to computers across California, racing to get ahead of the seismic waves themselves, which traveled a more modest 7,200 miles per hour. In Sacramento, a few milliseconds later, ShakeAlert computers spit out the earthquake's epicenter, magnitude, and displacement tensor onto its prototype seismic alert network. Across southern California, computers sprang to life, implementing their seismic safety protocols. The interstate natural gas pipeline valves closed. At nuclear power plants, control rods scrammed into safety mode and once-drowsy operators monitored their panels and braced for the impact. Frantic air traffic controllers waved off three airplanes on final approach at LAX, two at Orange County, and one at Burbank.

At a nondescript, tan building just south of downtown Los Angeles, the well-hidden emergency generator sprang to life, while inside the hard drives on the bank of computers scrammed, and long-neglected interrupts sent data streaming to flash memory. The routine was completed twenty seconds before the earthquake's S-wave hit. When it did, Hetty's abacus reset itself repeatedly, (from 000,000,000 to alternate between 444,444,444 and 555,555,555;) her tea set rattled across its cabinet until each precious cup and saucer had bumped against an egg-and-dart molding strip specifically installed against this eventuality; and her chess set went from placid contemplation to Wizard's Chess to full-on dance party.

Young Eric Beale had added one final step to the seismic safety subroutines in the Ops center, sending one last alert to his cell phone, which sprang to life with his own voice shouting, "Earthquake, Earthquake." That summer night, he had eighteen seconds to grab his glasses, his laptop, and his tablet before the shaking hit. The first tilt sent him hurtling to the surfboard leaning against the wall, which he spent the next fifteen seconds steadying in place.

As soon as the shaking stopped, his phone rang. "Good morning, Mr. Beale!"

"Good morning, Hetty. That was a big one!" Even through his jangling nerves, delight colored his voice: delight that Hetty was back from her inquisition in Washington.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, thank you." He reached for a light switch. "Oops, the power's out, but I'm fine here. How are you?" He closed the document he was word-processing.

"Fine, Fine. We're implementing the earthquake plan. I'll call Mr. Callen and Ms. Jones. You call Ms. Blye and Mr. Deeks. Callen will call Mr. Hanna."

"Right, then I'll see you at ops."

"Right. Secure your residence against both natural gas leaks and aftershocks, and please drive carefully."  
>"I always do, Hetty."<p>

"Be more careful than usual. The streets are in unknown condition, so stay below the speed limit."

"Good point. I'll pass that concern on to Kensi and Deeks when I call them."

"We will rendezvous at the mission."

He hung up, then dialed Kensi's number.

"Hi, Kensi. Sorry to wake you."

"Don't worry about it. You didn't wake me. You okay there?"

"Yup. You?"

"Yup. Earthquake plan, Eric?"

"Yup. I'll call Deeks next."

His voice came over the cell phone, "No need, Eric. We'll see you at the mission."

Eric, unrattled, confirmed, "Right, see you there. Hetty says to drive carefully: road conditions."

"Got it."

Meanwhile, at a women's shelter in Reseda, a freckle-faced sixteen-year-old with magenta streaks in her hair rummaged through the dark and the rubble. She collected her laptop, her playing cards and two photos. Then she loaded them carefully into her duffel and disappeared into the warm night without looking back.

As Kensi steered through the darkened streets, occasionally avoiding errant power lines or tilting billboards, all that Detective Marty Deeks could do was grin with self-satisfaction.

"I tell you, Kens, it felt like the earth moved that time."

"It did, you goof, but you didn't cause it."

"When I was in law school, a personal-injury baron told us it took a great lawyer to turn coincidence into causation."

"I'll give you a personal injury if you don't shut up about it. We're at the mission now."

Once everyone arrived, Hetty assigned the tasks. Unless the Defense Department was directly affected, the team would work on standby for other agencies. Eric worked with the Department of Roads and Streets and CalDOT using Kaleidoscope to monitor roads and reporting issues as he found them. Nell worked with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, Kensi with ICE, Callen with the DEA, and Sam with Camp Pendelton. "Liasing" with LAPD fell to Deeks, but his relation with Lt. Bates was so fragile that he relied as much on news reports, on his old contacts in the force, and on the police scanner as he did on his official channels.

By dawn, the shift had settled into something of a routine as the team helped address all the conditions unique to disaster recovery. First light revealed the extent of the city's damage: downtown, Hollywood, and Anaheim survived quite well, while South Central, Watts, and Reseda, with their deeper, siltier soil and their older building codes, suffered larger shaking and more infrastructure loss.

Partway through the morning, Deeks took a few minutes to run out for Kensi's donut, and while he was away Kensi came into the ops center, pulling Nell out of Eric's earshot.

"Nell, can I ask a favor of you?"

"Sure, Kens, anything."

"I just got a call from Astrid, that girl in the wargames case. Remember her?"

"Oh, yeah. Now I remember."

"Turns out the women's shelter where she'd been living collapsed."

"That one in Reseda? It looked bad. Is she okay?"

"She didn't get hurt, but she needs a place to stay for a few nights, and with Marty…"

Nell interrupted, "Yeah, I see. Sure, she could stay with me! I'd look forward to it."

"Great, I'll see if she can hang out in the boatshed until we leave! Thanks, Nell!"

By 2:00 that afternoon, Hetty sent the team home. "Go! We started early today! Secure your own residences, and be ready for another day of recovery tomorrow!" When Callen started to object, she dismissed him completely, "Good afternoon, Mr. Callen."

Later that afternoon, Nell had picked up Astrid and was heading home when she took a call from Eric. "What's up, Partner?"

"Sorry to bother you, and I know it's a big favor, but my power's still out. Can I stash some food in your fridge or freezer, Nell?"

"Sure, Eric, I've got plenty of room in both. Astrid and I are headed there now. Bring your stuff over when you can."

"Thanks, Partner."

As soon as Nell and Astrid arrived at her place, Nell dashed about, neatening her already-neat living room. So twenty minutes later Eric rang the doorbell of a spotless apartment. For a while, he dragged in bags and boxes while Nell loaded them into her fridge. As soon as everything was stashed, Nell bribed him to a seat at her breakfast nook with a large pitcher of ice water. "Thanks, Nell." He took another gulp. "It is a scorcher out there," he conceded.

"So, what are you doing for dinner, Beale?"

"I left PB and J and a couple pears on the counter. I should be able to eat them before dark."

"Why don't you join us?"

"This wouldn't just be a play for those steaks I brought over, Nellster?"

"You've got to admit, it's a pretty good play," she confirmed as she bumped his shoulder.

Eric relented, "It worked."

"Good, I'll go light the grill!"

Astrid watched as Nell and Eric bounced around the kitchen, completing each other's sentences, dividing tasks like a married couple, actually better than a married couple. Thanks to that teamwork, the steaks soon jostled for space on the grill with garlic bread and kebabs of summer squash, red onions, and orange peppers, and Eric's formerly-frozen chocolate cheesecake finished its thawing in the fridge.

After dinner, they tried to decide what to do. At first, they thought about computer games, but Eric put an end to computerized _Risk_: "I'd hate to be in the same room as a vicious pixie intent on world dominion."

Nell stepped closer, brought her face within eight inches of his and smiled in challenge. " 'Vicious pixie'? I'm flattered, Eric."

Astrid sounded confused. "Wait a minute, Nell! He just called you mean _and_ short, and the best you can say is that you're flattered?"

"Relax, Astrid. You've met Hetty. Back in the day, they called her 'vicious pixie,' and I can only hope to carry on the title. How 'bout poker? I've never seen Eric in action, and Kensi says you know your way around a stack of chips."

"Nell, it was blackjack that was my game, but, yeah, I held my own in poker, too. We'll just play for chips and bragging rights, right?" Eric confirmed.

Nell nodded, and completed the bargain. "Sounds good."

Astrid smirked. "Not strip poker?"

Nell and Eric's unison was impressive, "Definitely not!"

After eight friendly hands Nell had busted, so she became the dealer, managing an increasingly cutthroat game of Texas Hold-em. Once Eric turned on Astrid, his personality transformation was complete: polite, open, and easygoing in ops, he became an icy stoic under Astrid's glare. After a few more hands, though, he learned the inexperienced Astrid's 'tells,' and finished the game with a flourish.

"I must say, Astrid, you've got the weirdest set of tells I've ever seen."

"Do not!"

"Do too! They're almost backward. You _stop_ twitching when you're nervous. You smile when you've got a _bad_ hand."

"That's the point, they're backwards." Astrid grinned in triumph.

"Well, it's still a tell. You'd do better without them." Eric indicated his pile of chips.

"The thing is, you have almost no tells at all. It's like playing against a robot."

"That's his goal, Astrid," Nell interjected.

"Yup. I try to get into a robot mindset. 'What would the Terminator do now?' "

"It worked, almost made me mad. But Eric, I caught two mistakes you made when Nell was in. Raising on a pair of twos? You should have just handed her your chips!"

Eric gave Nell a sheepish glance, like the teacher had caught him passing her a note in class, while Nell gave an enigmatic smile.

Astrid pressed on, "And that's just the mistakes I caught. Eric, do you love your partner?"

Eric panicked. His eyes darted between Nell and Astrid and the blue chip in his hand. "She's a wonderful woman, and any man she chooses to date will be the luckiest man in the world, and …and… and…" he faltered.

"What, but she doesn't 'like you back'?"

Nell fired up, "What I think about Eric is nobody's business but my own!"

"And Eric's," Astrid interjected with a grin.

"Maybe, but when we work it out," Nell paused to catch her breath. Nobody noticed Eric's eyebrows shoot up. "It will be just for us, and no thanks to meddlesome teenagers like you."

She stormed into the kitchen with their glasses and could be heard vigorously rinsing them out: lemonade.

When she came back into the living room, Eric and Astrid were putting away the cards and chips. Astrid smiled in triumph, while Eric kept his smile on the inside. Nell asked, "So…headed home, Wolfram?"

"You got it. Who knows, but that a case may come in early tomorrow."

"But the AC's out at your place, and I've got plenty of space. Why don't you crash here?"

Eric looked nervously between them, "Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure! I was thinking Astrid gets the office, if you're okay with the sofa, that is."

"Thought it all out, have you?"

"Sure have, Beale! Whaddya say?" And with that she stepped close to Eric and gave him a friendly, mock, slug on the bicep.

After Eric recovered, he looked down at her and said, "What can I say but 'thanks!'?"

"I do have one rule though," Nell added with mock ferociousness.

"Your place, your rules." Eric consented.

"No polar-bear pajamas."

Eric laughed, "I'm not crazy. Those flannels are just for winter. In the summertime, it's usually boxers with a porcupine print."

She scrunched her face and writhed. "That hurts just to think about!"

"Not to worry, I left those at my place. It's a pair of jogging shorts I've got in my go bag."

"That's too bad," Astrid interrupted, "Nell and I were hoping to see those boxers."

"No, we weren't! Let it be, Astrid!" She settled. "You want first dibs on the bathroom?"

While Eric said, "Nah, I need to get the bag from the car," Astrid accepted.

"Okay, I'll get some sheets for you." Once Astrid had started the water, Nell let her guard down. "I'm sorry, Eric. She just…"

"Yeah, she pushed our buttons."

"Made us say things we didn't mean."

Eric interrupted, "No I meant it. You are a wonderful woman, you do deserve the best."

She melted into his arms, whispering, "We'll work it out, Eric. We'll work it out." After a minute, they emerged from their stolen reverie, and Nell went to her linen closet.

Walking into the office, Astrid was heard to mutter to herself, "Oh, man! I'm bunking with a vicious pixie and a Terminator wannabe with porcupine underpants. How'd I get into this?"

Eric settled down, but couldn't sleep, so he counted sheep. He used factoring to get the sheep over the fence for a while. (103 sheep all in a row, but 104 as thirteen groups of eight, 105 as five groups of twenty-one or seven groups of fifteen…) Then he listed the Pythagorean Triples. Then he counted by atomic weight. As soon as he set himself the challenge, though, he lost his train of thought, impatient to reach Ununoctium: Rare, transitory, energetic, and yet…and yet… his island of stability. When an approaching aftershock set off another alarm on his phone, he dashed to a doorframe for safety. After exchanging shouted "You all right?" greetings through Nell's door, he went back to the sofa and tried to sleep.

First light ended his efforts toward sleep: it had been fitful anyway. He booted his laptop and went back to his word-processing, keeping one ear cocked for any movement in the house. When Astrid's door opened, he quickly shut that file, password-protected it, and pulled up a computer game he'd been writing. Then he set down the laptop and went to the kitchen to start a large pot of coffee.

As soon as the coffee was brewing, he turned around to find Astrid staring at him from about a yard away, wearing only a tee shirt.

"Ooh, umm… Morning…I just started the coffee." He spoke to her earlobe and stepped away from her side of the kitchen.

"I can see." Her mumble had a monotone severe even for zero cups of coffee. She followed him.

"Should be ready soon." He took two more steps backwards. _Magenta hair. Why aren't her roots showing?_

She took two steps forward. "I use hot water when I'm in a hurry."

The strained conversation crept like an inchworm around Nell's living room. "That was some aftershock last night: Five point two." _How the hell can I walk backward when I can't even look at the ground? _

"Your phone woke me before it hit." She bent over to pick it up. Eric winced.

"Yeah. I've got a friend prototyping the shake-alert system. She let me patch into it from NCIS."

"Did you date her?"

"No. it's not like that. We went to school together. When our paths crossed last year, we had coffee and worked out the plan. We each got permission from our bosses, and finally hooked it up."

" 'Hooked it up.' Is that what you call it?" Astrid smirked.

"No! It's not like that!" _Why am I repeating myself? _"The link protects the NCIS computers from the shaking."

"But if it's to protect the computers, why did it alert you, too. Does that seem fair?"

"I…umm…might have added an extra step as I was coding. Now the NCIS computers send an alert to me. Fair? It's just a prototype system, so I don't think it was unfair. There were bugs, too. The first alert I got was for a 6.1 up at Point Reyes. I nearly had a heart attack over it; but that was so far away I didn't even feel it. I was in a movie theater at the time. Embarrassing." He rambled on. "This is the first big test of the system, and if there were problems, Brooke and her team will work them out. Hopefully the next iteration will reach more people."

She looked again at the phone. "But how does it know?"

"The computers work together very quickly, and talk at the speed of light. Since this earthquake was up at Maricopa, it took almost a minute for the first bad shockwaves to get here. That's enough time for the computers to decide where they ought to warn." He backed into the coffee table. When he looked back up, he saw Nell standing in the hallway, wearing a plum-colored robe over her pajamas. Over Astrid's shoulder, he mouthed, "Help!"

Nell, who had seen enough of this, decided to rescue Eric. "Oh, good! You made coffee," she nearly shouted.

"Yes, it sounds like it's done now."

"Thanks, Eric. That's sw….very kind." Eric smiled. Nell continued, "Astrid, I'm sorry I didn't know you'd need a robe. Come with me, I think I've got a spare."

Eric used the reprieve to pour his coffee, (with one splash of milk) then to set up mugs for Nell and Astrid. When the two returned, Astrid was in a brown robe and, Eric was pleased to note, it reached below her knees. She jostled past Nell for the coffee, and did a clumsy job of setting hers up, (three tablespoons of sugar, a quarter-cup of milk, and a healthy splash of Irish Creme syrup.) She took one sip, but then said, "Too hot. I'll let it cool while I shower. Okay, Nell?"

Nell looked up from pouring her own coffee (one splash of milk,) to confirm, "That works."

As they settled on the sofa, Eric smiled. "Thanks for the save, partner."

"I'm glad I saved you when I did."

"My calves are going to thank you for a month. It was about to get dangerous."

"I think she just didn't know."

"I think you're right, Nell. So long in the women's shelter, she didn't know, or didn't think, about how to act or what to wear around a guy." They sat in companionable, groggy silence for a while. "That didn't make it any less awkward, though." Another silence. Eric ran his hand along the sofa cushion. "I seem to specialize in awkward."

"That's what I love about you!" Eric startled. "Yeah, love! You're so careful to do everything so politely and caringly that your mind reduces a situation like that to 'what's the _least_ _im_polite thing to do?' "

"It still doesn't make it any less awkward," he repeated. "It seems like awkward follows me around like Pigpen's dust cloud."

Just then, his phone rang. "Oh, Hi, Marnie!" "Well, that's the kind of problem to have." He smiled. "I'd be glad to help out. I'll see what I can do. I'm headed to work today, but maybe later." "Okay, I'll call you." As Eric talked, Nell simply scowled at her coffee, but then she stomped to the kitchen so she could unload the dishwasher-noisily.

From the kitchen, she withered the last of Eric's smile as his attention returned to the present. "That was a … someone I volunteered with in El Salvador when we were building that hospital. Turns out she's now with the United Way here in LA," Nell's scowl turned to a sheepish grimace. "And they need a hand coordinating all the supplies: matching donations to needs, that sort of stuff. Donations have come out of the woodwork after the earthquake, but not always to the member organizations with a need. I said I'd stop by after work."

Nell thought for a few seconds, then replied, "There's another option." They shared a smile. "I'll bet Astrid would be good at it. Perhaps we all could stop by to get her started, then head in to ops."

"I like that."

"Thanks. I'm starting to think I could mentor Astrid a bit. I'll see if I can get her to 'let me in.'" Nell's mind raced to map out the scope of the problem. "I hope we can help her get some good work habits. She's at an age where she needs role models."

"The problem is," Eric objected, "that if we spend much time at the United Way, we'll be late to ops."

"Let me make a call," Nell said confidently as she reached for her phone.

"Hello, Hetty." "Yes, it went well. She's still here." "What do things look like in ops today?" "Good, we got a call from the United Way." "Well, Yes, Eric did." "They could use a hand matching donations from organizations with excess with organizations with needs." "Right. Angelenos have great hearts." "This would be a great chance to set her up as an intern." "Okay, we'll get to ops about eleven. Right. We'll get lunch on the way in. Thanks, Hetty!"

After she hung up, Eric reached over for an underhanded high-five. "Smooth talking, there, partner!" He continued, "How about Astrid and I go around the corner for some bagels or a Danish while you shower, then I'll swing by my place for a shower before we meet at the United Way. It's just a shower. I can light a few candles for that."

Forty minutes later, they met at the United Way. After introductions, they sat down to the ream of memos. "Hollywood Senior Center has lots of cookies, but needs plastic cups to drink from." "The Long Beach Boys and Girls Club has lots of plastic cups and hamburger buns."

Eric broke the shock of inundation. "Nell, on the way over here, I was thinking about how to route the truck for all these deliveries."

Nell confirmed, "The Traveling Salesman problem."

"Right, Nell. Would you like to structure the databases while Astrid inputs? Then I could modify the traveling salesman subroutine for these deliveries. Sound good?"

They spent the next ten minutes mapping out the tasks, then dove in. For the next hour, they all worked in silence, until it was clear that the "bugs" were worked out.

Nell handed Astrid her card. "Give me a call when you're done here. We'll see where things stand."

The two got into their cars and drove to the mission.

As Eric walked through the bullpen, Callen hailed him.

"Hey, Eric. We've got a favor to ask."

" 'We'?" he asked with trepidation. "Uhh…what's up?"

"It turns out Arkady's security system got damaged in the quake. Could you go help him get it back to form?"

Eric's eyes widened. "But I'm not cleared to go into the field, Callen."

"Don't worry, Eric." With his arm on Eric's shoulder, he could have said 'Little Buddy,' "This isn't an op. This is doing a favor for a source. Tell you what: how 'bout Nell comes along. You and Arkady could enjoy the company."

Reluctantly, Eric agreed. "We'll need to clear it with Hetty first."

Since she had stolen up behind them, any search became unnecessary. "Go, Mr. Beale. Mr. Callen's reasoning is unimpeachable."

The surfer broke into a wide smile, like he'd finally gotten the joke. "Is this about trapdoors? Would you like to have a covert feed from his security system?"

"No, he's certain to check. This is about maintaining his trust."

"And if I find someone else's trapdoor?"

Callen thought for only a second. "Probably depends whose. If it's a friendly, like the Brits', leave it. Someone else: Chinese, Cartels, study it, then disable it and tell Arkady."

"Got it. We'll see you soon."

Hetty interrupted. "Don't forget, Mr. Beale, that we've been starting early since the quake struck. Unless something comes up, we'll probably move quitting time early, too."

"Thank you, Hetty! I'll go get Nell."

Two hours later, the video work was complete and Nell and Eric shared the patio table with Arkady. The Americans drank orange juice while Arkady doctored his with vodka.

"Speak of screwdriver, you two…?" His hand gesture was unmistakable.

Nell hurtled around the table and grabbed Arkady's silken robe by the lapels. "Now listen here, you lard-bellied dirty old man." She switched to Russian and stepped beside him so she could whisper in his ear, _"What Eric and I are doing—or might do— is nobody's business but our own. In American society, it isn't polite to ask a woman about her love life. Now, I happen to know that sixty percent of the diamonds you sold last month at the diamond exchange had Russian chemical signatures but no Russian laser serial numbers. So if you understand what's good for you, you'll just shut up about Mr. Beale and me." _

Since Eric's Russian was only rudimentary, he could only wait, his eyes darting nervously between his partner and the guard, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the James Bond super-henchman, Jaws. Subconsciously, Eric checked the bodyguard's teeth.

At the end of Nell's tirade, Arkady raised his hands in good-spirited surrender. "All right! All right! You make your point. Apologize." He caught his breath and straightened his lapels. "Your accent, is Leningrad?"

Nell huffed, "Petrograd, now, Mr. Kolchek. Welcome to the twenty-first century."

"What they say? 'Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,' In Russia it all end up same place." He indicated the vodka.

Nell finished her answer. "But yes, my teacher was from St. Petersburg."

Eric, fidgeting with his cell phone, suddenly took a call. "Yes…That sounds bad…Yes, we'll be right there, Callen…Yes." He turned to Nell. "That was Callen." He rose to shake Arkady's hand. "Something's come up, Mr. Kolchek. We'd better go help the team out. Thank you for your hospitality."

"I thank you for your help." He looked at Nell. "Manners lesson, too."

Right before Eric started down the flamboyantly manicured drive, the guard came running out to the car. Through the window, he passed a bottle of champagne in to Nell, saying, "With Mr. Kolchek's thanks."

"Well, tell him thank you, too."

As Eric sped away, Nell asked, "So, what's this crisis in ops?"

"Crisis?" Eric gave a chuckle. "There's no crisis! I just had to separate you and Arkady. That was my bad-date app."

Nell laughed. "Separate us?"  
>"Absolutely! We were there to cultivate our source, not piss him off."<p>

"Fair enough." She thought. "But what are you doing with a bad-date app, anyhow? Does it come in handy often, Beale?" She gave Eric her infuriatingly cute smug-face.

"It just did." He smiled, like he'd dodged a bullet.

"That's not what I…"

"Be prepared, and all that stuff," he muttered. Then he fired up, "But why are you prying anyhow? You almost came to blows with a Russian mob boss—KGB alumnus to keep your love-life secret."

"Us. Our L…" she hesitated, "_thing_, Eric! Our _thing_. Whatever it is, Eric, it's us who get to decide."

"Right, us! That's what we keep saying, Nell."

"But all this pressure, all these assumptions." She turned and stared out the window. "Before the quake, I was on fanfiction and read a story where we did it in ops. There's another where you seduce me with a meatloaf dinner then follow me to Rhode Island—of all places! Others are busy trying to set me up with Callen. It's like the fact that I'm single isn't just a trait or condition, but a plot problem to solve."

Eric completed her thought, "What does that tee-shirt say? 'A woman without a man is like a fish without orange juice'?"

"I think it's 'a fish without a bicycle,' and that may be a little strong, But still, when we start dating, it will be because we want to, not because anybody else wants us to." Eric mouthed, "when?" while Nell thought for a while, sour. "I just spent two weeks managing one of the elite teams in all of federal law enforcement. We stopped terrorists from using a submarine to shut down one of the busiest ports in the country."

While Nell caught her breath, Eric added, "under your command."

"Yes, and before that, we stopped Iran from getting nuclear weapons, we stopped a smallpox outbreak, and we reclaimed almost a billion dollars in US gold…should I go on? But in spite of all that, all people want to know is who I'm sharing my bed with?"

"Right, that's out of line." Eric muttered.

"And what is it with 'ghosting'? In all this fanfiction, you guys are 'ghosting' all over me: hands, breath…Yuck!"

"I'll keep that in mind: no tickling," Eric grinned. On Deeks, it would have looked rakish, but on Eric, it was simply goofy.

Until that moment, Nell had never understood Kensi's tendency to hit her partner, but now, … only the fact that Eric was driving held the temptation in check. "No! That's not it! A ghost is a disembodied spirit and all that stuff. It's just that everybody and their sister is turning it into a verb. It's overused."

While Nell was cooling down, Eric took a call. "That was my neighbor. Old Mrs. Silva says the power's just come back on. I'll need to be there to let the super in about my pilot light."

"That thing works for real calls too?" she smirked. "You can't just call them to set a time?"

"I like that idea. I figure by five the fridge will have cooled down enough that I can reload it. I'll ask for five." After that call, he checked that Nell's mood had improved. "He can't get there 'til tomorrow morning. I sure won't need the heater tonight," he laughed, "and I can get by one night without my stove."

A few minutes later, as the two walked down the tunnel into the bullpen, Eric carrying the champagne, Nell offered, "I'll go print out the form for the champagne. It's a gift from a foreign national. Strictly speaking, Hetty will have to put it into storage for an op."

"There will be no need for that, Ms. Jones. My contact at the United Way of Greater Los Angeles describes the wonders your protégé has worked in their logistics department. You and Mr. Beale deserve to celebrate the successful mentoring relationship you've established with that very talented young lady. Now, get that into the fridge before I officially see it."

As Eric hid the bottle behind his back with mock sheepishness, Nell put on a face of girlish innocence and asked, "Officially see what, Hetty?"

"Don't be cheeky." She shooed them on their way.

They rejoined the team as they continued to monitor Los Angeles for needs, as slowly life in the city returned to normal. Every so often the mainframe computers would freeze before an aftershock rumbled through, and soon other teams were running pools on the magnitude. "Put me in for 5.3 on that one," and Eric's phone became the go-to arbiter across the building.

Deeks was politely called in for one routine homicide investigation, a jealous ex, because patrols had been stepped up in some neighborhoods against looting. Fortunately, looting had not been a problem, but that didn't change the fact that LAPD was stretched thin.

As the team wound down from another day of watchful waiting, Nell called Astrid; "They found a spot in a home for you?" "Oh, you found it yourself. Well, that's good, you're advocating for yourself!" "And you're hourly at the United Way? That's great." "Listen: let's stay in touch, okay?" "Let's get pizza after work next week. Which day?" "Tuesday it is. We'll talk that afternoon. See you then."

That evening, Eric carried the champagne and chatted with Nell as they made their way out of ops, but the team seemed lying in wait, and Sam spied them. "Dom Perignon, Rose, 2003. That's four hundred bucks a bottle!"

Then Callen examined the bottle, too. "You got this from Arkady? Must have really done the job on his security system!"

"Well," Nell drawled, "there might have been a _little_ dust-up when he asked questions he shouldn't have. I think it's by way of apology, as well."

"Well, you guys deserve it." Callen summarized.

"The dust-up or the alcohol?" Nell asked.

Sam took the bottle from Eric's grasp and examined it carefully. "Just remember, Eric: It has to be served at 47 degrees. Let it chill below that, and it will warm as you drink it. Here's the system. Bottle in the bucket, fill one-third of the way with cold water, then add ice the rest of the way. Lift the bottle about an inch, then let it rest. Should be ready in fifteen minutes. Wipe the bottle dry before you open it. Don't pop the cork; just twist the bottle away from the cork. And be sure to use a good pair of flutes. The wrong glass could really ruin your experience."

Eric concentrated to master the ceremony, but then squared up for his reply. "Thanks, Sam. We'll remember that."

"That's 47 Fahrenheit, guys!" Deeks added with a laugh.

Kensi gave her partner a swat. "They know that!"

Deeks massaged his shoulder, "But knowing Eric, his fridge is calibrated in Rankine."

"504," Eric replied without missing a beat.

"What do blue jeans have to do with this?" Callen asked.

"No, that's the temperature in Rankine," Nell answered. "But what I want to know is how Deeks knew about the Rankine scale."

Deeks looked hurt. "You may think I'm just a sassy surfer with a hot bod," Sam's snort interrupted him.

"But underneath, there's a science geek waiting to get out. I happen to know I'm the one who got you started on your Wolfram-Ununoctium nickname thing."

After Nell and Eric finished their blushing denials, Sam handed the bottle back and pointed at them both. "Just be sure to tell me what you think. I've never had this vintage."

Hetty joined the team. "Remember, too, that this is enough alcohol to put you both over the legal limit. Plan to sleep where you finish this bottle."

"Don't worry Hetty, we have no intention of wrapping a car around a light-pole," Eric said, and they headed out the door.

When the mission door closed, Nell asked, "Did Hetty just tell us to sleep together? Hetty, too?"

He put his arm around her. "Relax, Nell. She meant sleep-sleep, not…well…. And she's right, too. No DUI's for us."

A few minutes later, the beleaguered friends arrived at Nell's apartment. When Eric went to put the champagne in the overloaded fridge, he broke the companionable silence, saying, "I think there's time to get this stuff back into my fridge. Then we can celebrate."

"Sure, but besides the champagne, what should we eat? Can't drink Dom Perignon with take-out burritos, can we, Beale?"

"Well, Nellster, I figure we're drinking champagne that costs more than my TV. I say we go for it….Err…Umm…I say let's not mess around…Err…"

"You figure it might as well be fancy?"

He only nodded, then came up with a plan. "How 'bout I take you to that place that tries to be a French Café, Nell. Then we can settle down with the drinks afterward?"

"I like how you think. I've got Brie and crackers I can throw in."

"And there's still some of that cheesecake we had last night. Now, where would you like to have this celebration?"

"Don't you mean, 'your place or mine?'" She grinned. His awkwardness came back with a vengeance, but Nell continued unaffected. "I figure we might as well come back here. Who knows how your place will be after the power was out."

"Thanks, Nell. I still ought to get my groceries out of your fridge. Shouldn't take me more than half an hour."

"Can I ride along?"

"That'd be nice."

It took a little longer to get the food into Eric's apartment fridge. The ice cubes had melted and he wanted to swab down the fridge while it was empty. While he was working, Nell watched, but then stared down the hallway. "Y'know? I still can't believe you've got porcupine boxers. I've got to see them." Eric sprang from the fridge, nearly knocking over the pineapple juice, and planted himself between Nell and his bedroom. Slowly, he shook his head, 'no.'

"I'll let you see my hip-boo." Nell wheedled.

"Your what?"

"When I was two, I got a stuffed hippopotamus, slept with it every night. Couldn't pronounce the name though, so I called it 'hip-boo.' Last time I was home, my big brother dug it out and hid it in my suitcase. Now, for old time's sake, he sleeps on the bookcase and keeps me company."

"You, Ms. Jones, are a woman of surprises. I'll go get the boxers."

"Fashion show?" she asked.

"No. Definitely not!" he shouted from in front of his dresser. When he emerged carrying them, Nell had to search hard for the porcupines. The pattern showed principally a forest scene with pines, granite and moss. Much to Nell's disappointment, the porcupines represented just a small part of the print.

"It's just a forest scene. There are porcupines, but I'll have to tell Astrid you oversold these boxers."

"If you do, I'll tell her about Hip-boo!"

"But how will you know if I talked, Beale?"

He rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. "Got me again," he grumbled.

It took a while to find his champagne stopper, ("Hey, Let's save a little for Sam," he'd suggested.) Then they made a quick stop at a kitchen store for champagne flutes, but soon they were headed to the restaurant.

When they got back to Nell's, Eric rinsed the flutes and set them to dry, while Nell set up the champagne to ice. They worked together on the cheese and dessert, and soon had everything set up on Nell's coffee table. Conversation made its way from nervous and sober, to relaxed, to laughing, and finally to companionable cuddling. When Eric made to top off the champagne, he realized how little was left, just enough for Agent Hanna, so he reset the stopper, put the bottle back in the fridge, and stepped toward Nell's hall. "Where did you put that sheet from last night, Nelly?"

"You won't need it, Eric." She got up. "Come with me."

"But, Nell," he stumbled, "after everything we've said…."

"Everything we've said says this is just the right thing. Let's get to bed."


	5. Chapter 5

Trigger warning: this chapter discusses, but does not describe or depict, sexually based offenses.

A special thank you to Aquamarin28628 for advice on this chapter, and to BlackBear53, whom I pressed into service as beta-reader.

* * *

><p>Early on a Friday morning in June, Acting Operations Manager Nell Jones arrived at the Mission, sighed wearily, and set her briefcase on the counter in the electronics lab. As she booted her computer, Eric Beale barreled down the steps and turned toward the desk that still held Hetty's knickknacks. When he saw Nell in the electronics lab instead, he froze. "Why aren't you in your new office?"<p>

"That's not my office. It's Hetty's."

"It's the OM's, and while that's you, it's yours, just like it was Lauren Hunter's when she stepped in."

"Well, there's a ringing endorsement, Eric." He grimaced as he remembered the implications.

"Wait, No! You're not the superstitious type, are you, Nell?"

"No, No. It's not that." She looked again at the tchotchkes forty years of Hetty's service had accumulated. "It just wouldn't feel right. I'd be an interloper."

He put a soothing hand on each of her shoulders. "She'll come back. She always comes back."

Nell gave a watery chuckle. "Yeah, probably." Then her eyes brightened. "Probably with somebody else's head on a platter!"

After a few seconds, Eric looked at both his hands on his boss's shoulders. They froze. Nell's eyes darted, darted anywhere but to meet Eric's gaze.

Eric emerged first from their reverie and quickly withdrew his hands. "Anyhow, I came down here because I got an alert on that cluster-watch program we wrote."

Nell bumped his bicep. "You wrote, Beale."

"No, it was your idea for connecting dots, but anyhow…it looks for groups of service members with similar discipline marks traveling to the same place at the same time. Three naval officers involved in security lapses all going to Seattle might mean they're up to something. Well, we got a hit."

"Spy ring in Seattle? Is that what we're up against?"

"Nope, not this time. There are five marines with domestic restraining orders coming to LA this weekend."

"Hmmm. So what does it mean?"

"I'm not sure myself, but I'd like to follow it up. I'll poke around some more."

"Sounds good, Eric. But not too much: you've still got a report on the submarine case and an expense account to turn in." She shook her finger in scolding, but laughed.

"Yes, boss," and Eric departed with a mock obeisance.

The agents arrived and, with appropriate grumbling, dove into their paperwork. By ten, Eric had enough to brief Nell again, so he stopped by her makeshift office.

"Nell, do you have a minute?"

"What have you got?"

"I followed up on that cluster-watch hit. After I sorted out the guys bringing their family to Disneyland or following the Yankees out for an Angels game, here's what's left." He handed her a thick pile.

She scanned through it. "And this is just among marines and ex-marines?"

"'Fraid so. And they're all staying at the Palm Winds hotel in Baldwin Park."

"So, all-in-all, how many Marines at that hotel this weekend?"

"Twenty-three."

"Write up a preliminary report and send me everything you've got. I'll need to alert the director. And nothing to the team yet: This could get big, so we'll need to play it by the book."

"Shakespeare: did you know 'by the book,' came from Shakespeare?"

"Yeah, Romeo, and it was about kissing. Now get me that report." With eyes big as saucers, Eric left her office.

Fifteen minutes after Eric turned in his report, the big screen in ops came to life. "Please hold for the Secretary of the Navy," a captain intoned. Just as Eric regained his composure, Nell strode into ops, expelled everyone besides Eric, and closed the louvers for secure communication.

Blue curtains in a wood-paneled office came into view and seconds later SECNAV Sarah Porter and NCIS Director Leon Vance entered the screen. Nell led off the meeting. "Mr. Beale uncovered the cluster of activity. I hope he can join our discussions."

"Very well," Director Vance grumbled.

"Madam Secretary, Mr. Director, sir, Mr. Beale uncovered a group calling itself 'the Long Guns' that has booked its convention, of sorts, at the Palm Winds Hotel in Baldwin Park. A total of twenty-three former and active-duty marines will travel in from around the country. Among them are three marines who have been investigated for rape, two arrested for solicitation, and three arrested for exposure. They are also the recipients of five domestic restraining orders and a half-dozen for drunk-and-disorderly reports."

SECNAV followed up. "Leon, I wanted to be involved in this because it sounds like a modern-day Tailhook Association." She gave a sigh, "Back in '91, their 'convention' in Vegas featured hookers, strippers, and too much booze. The rapes and botched investigations ended the careers of fourteen admirals and about three hundred Naval aviators, … and one of my predecessors."

"Not only that, it led to the formation of NCIS from NIS. The Navy Department needed a more independent investigative service." Leon Vance crossed his arms defensively. "I don't need to tell you we're walking on eggshells here."

Sarah Porter leaned forward at her desk. "Right, Leon. There were four thousand guys in the Tailhook Association in Vegas. The goal this time is to take this marine group down before they get that big. This is the new Navy Department. I don't want anything even close to Tailhook on my watch."

The director took a step back, as if to gain space to think. "If this blows up, you'd probably survive, Madam Secretary, but it would end the careers of the other three of us."

She nodded in agreement. "That's why I've sent Gibbs and his team out there to handle the investigation."

Eric, stunned, tried to object. "But I'm sure Nell…we…can handle this."

Sara Porter regained the professorial air she'd brandished at Georgetown before her appointment. "The director's right, Mr. Beale. Until you brief your team and Gibbs's, you and he are the only males who know about this. We need to avoid appearing unfair to these men."

Leon Vance looked up from his cell phone. "His team just pulled out of the Navy Yard."

Nell signed off. "We'll keep you in the loop. Thank you both for your time."

"Thank you both for your good work." The words were the Secretary's, but the inflection matched that of a bulk-purchased Hallmark card.

As soon as the big screen went blank, Nell dialed Callen's desk phone. "Could you rally the troops? We've caught a case."

"We're all right here, Nell. We'll be up within the minute." He turned to the team. "That was Nell. She's apparently ended the dog-whistle routine."

His partner put an arm on his shoulder. "New boss, new rules, G."

After the team arrived, Nell prompted Eric.

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Long Guns." Their Marine Corps ID's filed onto the big screen, followed by their disciplinary reports. "It's an informal group of retired and active-duty marines flying in from around the country for a 'convention' at the Palm Winds hotel in Baldwin Park starting tonight. Given the double entendre in their name..."

"You mean these guys weren't all artillery?" Deeks smirked as he interrupted.

Unfazed, Eric started over. "Given the double entendre in their name and their prior run-ins with police and MP's, it looks like they'll make spring breakers look like grade-school recess."

Sam pulled his chin in contemplation. "The Marine Corps doesn't need that kind of publicity."

Eric shook his head disconsolately. "That's what SECNAV said."

"You spoke with SECNAV, Eric?" Deeks sounded impressed.

"Yeah, and I nearly fell out of my chair when she came on screen!"

Suppressed pride colored Nell's voice. "We involved him in the videoconference because he's the one who connected the dots."

Kensi echoed her partner's awe. "Your report to Vance got SECNAV's attention, Nell."

"She didn't want it turning into the next Tailhook scandal," Nell said apologetically.

Kensi persisted. "Still, those are some major kudos for you two, then." Sam nodded.

Eric's voice dropped into a grumble. "That's the best way to look at the situation: they're sending Gibbs and his team out here for it."

Deeks ground his right fist into his left palm. "It's like they don't trust her. She's smart and competent, and...and just generally awesome. They're the ones who gave her this team. Why don't they trust her with this case?"

Kensi turned her back on the team, recovered, then returned to the conversation. "This is about Afghanistan. They don't trust Nell 'cause she's Hetty's protégé."

Nell's eyes shot up. "Really, we all are Hetty's." More calmly, Nell continued. "You've got to see her reasoning. With all the women in this chain of command, it could look like a vendetta against these guys: We've also gotta watch the perceptions."

The team had not settled completely when the big screen came alive again, showing the inside of a business jet. Agents Gibbs, DiNozzo, Bishop and McGee filled the screen.

"So, Callen, you guys are the reason SECNAV packed my team into this flying tin can?"

"Nice to see you too, Gibbs."

Eric interrupted, "Actually, Agent Gibbs, sir, I guess I'm the one who should apologize."

Gibbs leaned toward the camera. "Don't apologize, Mr. Beale. I'm just giving Callen some grief. We're reading the report right now. It sounds like you're the one who connected the dots. Good work."

Resignation sounded in Nell's voice. "So what can we do 'til you get here, Agent Gibbs?"

"Whatever you think is right, Agent Jones. As I see it, it's your lead: your case."

"Rule thirty-eight." DiNozzo confirmed.

"We were just talking about perceptions, though. We need men involved."

"Don't worry. I will be. I'll sign off on anything you work up. You've got a great team there, so just count on us to help any way you need."

"Thank you, sir. I'm inclined to let you guys rest 'til you get out here. Jet lag's the worst enemy you can address right now. Can you think of anything we should be working on?"

"Not really. This is all a little outside my wheelhouse."

"Ours too." Callen echoed.

Nell followed up. "I'll ask Detective Deeks to work up a briefing on the state of the law on all the crimes we might encounter tonight. We'll also beef up video surveillance."

"Works for me. See you when we land." With a 'zip,' the screen went blank.

Nell turned to the team. "That's the plan we'll work on today, guys. Deeks, I'd like you to use your legal training to map out the state of the law on what we'll be seeing there. Keep in mind we'll be balancing the need to prevent the worst crimes against the need to convict these guys of the worst we can, in court and in the court of public opinion."

Deeks's eyes widened in reminiscence. "Professor Lisa McMurtry at Pepperdine. She's the expert on this stuff."

"That may be, but don't contact her: stay below the radar. In fact, Eric, could you set him up as a law student?" He nodded to Nell. "Library access, online access, even a clean laptop to work on at the library. What: UCLA?"

"That works. They've got an awesome library." Deeks smiled. "And the second-floor tables are great for girl-watching too."

That earned him a slug from his partner. "You're on the clock, Doofus!"

"Sounds like Sam and I are on the video feeds."

"What, complimentary upgrade from their security company, G., or something under the radar?"

Nell cocked her head as she fleshed out the idea. "I like it. A cover with the security company will work to get you back in tonight. Keep in mind that a picture is worth a thousand words, so I want them to be good pictures. Anyplace they step at that hotel, I wanna be able to count their zits."

Deeks gave a mock grimace. "There's a charming image, boss!"

Nell ignored him. "Kensi, you'll go in under cover, so until the op we'll need to keep you low-profile. Work from here with Sam and Callen. Eric will set you up as their 'home-office contact.' That way, you can check the video feeds in real-time."

As Sam, Callen, and Deeks left the ops center, Eric asked, "And after I build their covers, Nell?"

"We need to sort out the leadership." The pneumatic door hissed open for her. "Follow the money."

About an hour later, while the agents worked on the video feeds, Nell returned to the ops center. "Eric, what have you found?"

"Meet Bob Sessions, of El Monte." His driver's license came on screen. "Retired in '09. Deposited a string of checks, each for $253, and each from one of the Long Guns coming into town tomorrow. These would be the registration fees for a regular convention, but are just the expenses for the party."

"Does that include lodging?"

"Nope, just the conference room and the open bar—oh, and a banner: forty bucks."

"So where's the rest of the money going? He started with over $5,800."

"I put a watch on his bank account. He just bought about $3,000 in chips for the tables at Hollywood Park."

"That would do it. He could turn around and cash them in."

The video came up on the big screen. "Exactly. And here he goes."

"Okay, put a Kaleidoscope trace on his car. What else will be going on at this party?"

{insert line here}

As Marty Deeks returned from the library, a government van pulled up and disgorged the team from Washington. As soon as he recognized Deeks, DiNozzo joked, "You can't go in there. You're not NCIS."

Deeks stepped in front of the door and laughed, "The question is whether I should let you guys in."

Gibbs shook his hand. "How you doin', counselor?"

"I'd call it eight to ten." He opened the door and motioned courteously. "Let's go up to do the introductions."

The agents had collected in the bullpen so, by mutual consent, the meeting moved downstairs. Nell emerged from the electronics lab as Kensi called up to ops. "Eric, could you come down here? We have company."

After he sprinted downstairs, Callen began the introductions over many shaken hands. "You probably remember agents Sam Hanna and Kensi Blye and our tech operator Eric Beale. Our new Operations Manager is Nell Jones. And this is our liaison from LAPD, Marty Deeks."

Gibbs returned the favor. "Agent Callen, you remember Agents Tim McGee and Tony DiNozzo. And this is Agent Ellie Bishop, New from the NSA."

Nell's eyes widened. "Ellie Bishop? I read your work on Benham Parsa." She renewed the handshake.

With her spare hand, Bishop indicated the circle. "But this is the agency that took him down."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes at her. "Don't sell yourself short, Bishop! It was thanks to your groundwork."

Still holding her hand, she replied, "But this is _the_ Agent Nell Jones! Her work on opposition parties in Venezuela is amazing."

"Please, call me Nell. I'm sure my Venezuela white paper is obsolete now that Chavez has passed."

"Still, it forms a background for what's going on now."

Tony rolled his eyes, let out an impatient huff, and then put a hand on each woman's shoulder. "I'm sorry to interrupt this meeting of the NCIS Analyst Guru Mutual Admiration Society…"

"What, Tony, for the NCIS Mirror Admiration Society?"

"No, McGrumpy-Pants. Its 'cause I want to go to the Bela Lugosi Museum." He punctuated his jibe with a sarcastic smirk.

"Settle down, you two. Nell, Let's patch Abby in, then you can bring us up to speed."

A few taps on Eric's keypad brought the tech lab in DC onto the screen as Abby Sciutto sprang from her hiding place below the counter and straightened her dog collar. "Hello, Everybody!"

Gibbs stepped toward the screen, "We miss you Abbs."

She shrugged. "I figure I can be more help out here."

Nell stepped in front of Gibbs. "You're willing to participate tonight, Ms. Sciutto, even with the time difference?"

"Sure, I'd go to the ends of the earth to bring down rotten, reprehensible reprobates like these. Errrr."

"Okay, then. We'll set you up as a central point of contact." She turned to her former partner. "Eric, you want the honors?"

A few more keyboard clicks compressed Abby into one corner of the screen while assorted photos and a Marine Corps ID expanded onto the rest of the screen. He dove in to his briefing. "Since we spoke, we've identified this guy, Sergeant Robert (Bob) Sessions, as the central point of contact. He received a check from everybody else, booked the conference room, and just finished taking $3000 to a back-alley meeting with this guy, with almost a dozen arrests for pandering."

Nell continued, "As I see it, we've got two objectives: to take these guys down, and to send the message to anybody else who might start a group like this. We've got the staff from two teams, we've got two missions: take out the leadership and arrest the members, so I'm setting up two cells. One—the men—will get this Sessions Guy: Agents McGee, DiNozzo, Callen and Hanna."

Deeks interrupted, offended. "Hey! What about me? Am I going in drag with the women?"

"Hah! I'd love to see it. Please, Nell?" Kensi clasped her hands in prayer.

Sam grabbed him across the chest and ran his fingers through his hair. "Your hair's long enough. They should be able to give you a page-boy up in wardrobe."

"Okay, Okay! Sorry team! Nell, please tell me I'm not going in drag."

"Not unless you want to." She smirked. "These guys actually hired a video company to record their 'exploits,' Girls-Gone-Wild style. I had in mind that you'd go undercover as a cameraman. Sam, Callen: you've already established your cover with the security company. Turns out by night you work as guards. Meanwhile, Agent Gibbs, I figure you may have crossed paths with some of these guys. How 'bout if you work from here as the men's eyes and ears?" He nodded. "Women, we'll be in the other cell, working to take down individual members. We'll go in as 'Marine groupies.' Abby, if you're willing, I'd like you to be our team's point of contact: you'll watch the video feeds and call out what we need to do."

"Thanks, Nell. I'd like that."

"So here's the challenge, as I see it. On the one hand we want to protect the women there. But on the other, we want to send a message to guys in the service anywhere, that this stuff is just plain wrong. We don't want to be seen as nickel-and-diming these guys."

"Like busting Al Capone for tax evasion," DiNozzo interrupted.

McGee turned on him. "Hey, it worked!"

Bishop cut in. "But it really didn't send a strong message. It made the career for Elliot Ness and kept the press happy, but worked only because it was the best play they had."

"Right, so we'll get a take-out dinner then work out scenarios—rules of engagement—for what we'll likely see and what we'll do about it. In the meantime, you all are welcome to our gym and pistol range."

Bishop's eyes lit up. "Agent Blye, could you show me to the pistol range?"

"Please, call me Kensi—but sure, walk this way."

DiNozzo smirked and leaned over toward Deeks. "This I've gotta see!"

"What, two hot chicks doing target practice?"

"No. Bishop doing the walk-this-way walk like Kensi."

Deeks laughed. "I'm absolutely certain Charlie Chaplin made the first 'walk this way' joke in a movie."

DiNozzo leaned in. "No, actually, it was in a Jimmy Stewart movie written by Dashiell Hammett."

When Sam noticed the look on Kensi's face, he turned to McGee. "What say we set up some hand-to-hand sparring in the gym?"

McGee had seen the same looks, and smiled as he caught on to the plan. "Sure. Let's set up a round-robin. Marty, Tony: you in? Callen?"

"Beating up on McDweeby? Count me in!"

As soon as she had dragged Kensi clear of the rest of the agents, Bishop started interrogating her. "How long have you been with NCIS?"

"Eight years, now."

"What's it been like? —I mean overall?"

"There are good days and bad days."

"Any advice for avoiding the bad days?"

"Well, the mantra around here is 'trust your training.'" Seeing Bishops puzzled look, Kensi continued. "We're always training, always mastering new skills: I'll show you the range of weapons when we get to the armory. That way, when we face danger, we dive in and let our instincts take over."

"And the scary stuff? I've heard what you faced in Afghanistan. What your guys did to get those nukes back. How do you get through that?"

"I'll bet there's no general rule. Sam, Deeks and I each got through it in our own way. I know Callen's faced his demons. The one constant has been our support network. The team, Sam's wife, my mom lately. Everybody looks out for everybody." She looked slowly around the armory and her voice quieted. "Hetty set up an amazing team."

After they stepped into the pistol range, they prepared their targets and fired a practice clip. Kensi's bullet strikes formed a tight circle on the silhouette's center-of-mass, while Bishop's made an ellipse stretching from near one hip to the other shoulder. "Let's try it again," Kensi offered.

For the second target, Kensi fired off shots with metronome-like regularity and even better accuracy. Bishop slowed down, but did not improve her accuracy.

Bishop pulled off her earguard in frustration.

Kensi smiled. "Practice, ma'am, practice."

"But seriously, I've been practicing for months now, and my shots always cluster like that."

"What? Stretched diagonally from seven to one o'clock?" A smile started to form on Kensi's lips.

"Yeah, I can't figure it out." Bishop grumbled.

"I think it's a fairly common problem. Let's do an experiment." Kensi led her to the work table, grabbed more clips and five of the pistols there—and a fisherman's spring scale. Back at the range, she pointed each downrange, then used the scale to pull the trigger. After each shot, she recorded the result on a key tag and arranged them on the bench.

She reached for Bishop's pistol. "May I?"

When Bishop nodded, Kensi repeated the test. "Whoa! Eight pounds: your trigger is the strongest one here."

"Yeah, I chose that for safety."

"That's what the safety is for. The trigger is a separate issue. Since missing the shot is naturally unsafe, choose the trigger pull strength-within the range of specifications, so it will match your needs. Let's try out these others." She selected the leftmost pistol—with the lightest trigger—and passed it to Bishop, who fired one shot, low and left, thought for ten seconds, then sent the other bullets through a tight circle on the target.

"Wow! I see what you mean!"

Kensi grabbed one from the middle of the line. "Try this one: It's four pounds, the lower end of the spec range." Another circular cluster.

"That seems right. I felt tentative with the one at three and a half pounds, and lost accuracy with my old setting, but this seems, I don't know, responsive, intuitive."

Kensi looked at the tag. "Keep in mind that adrenaline gives you extra strength."

"I know, but if I get used to this on the range, in the field it'll come easy."

Bishop nodded so Kensi continued. "Okay. When did you last clean your weapon?"

Bishop gave a sheepish blush. " 'Bout a month—thirty clips—ago."

"That would explain part of it. Let's give it a cleaning."

The two agents cleared the magazine on Bishop's gun, checked the chamber and stepped out to the work table. Soon, Bishop was disassembling her pistol and spreading it onto the counter while Kensi checked the spares she'd collected and returned them to the counter. Kensi watched as Bishop cleaned and started reassembling the gun then headed for the range. "When you finish it up, meet me in there."

Bishop worked cautiously, waited for Kensi to finish a clip, then stepped to the range to join her. They tested the pull, seven pounds, then Bishop tried it out.

Two targets later, she passed judgment: "It feels a little better. It's still a struggle though. Is there anything else we can do?"

"I'm not a certified gunsmith, so if I did anything else, it could come back and bite us. Back at the Navy Yard is one of the best armorers in the country, though. They can get you set up at five pounds, which would be in spec. For tonight, let's talk to Gibbs and see which sidearm he'd like you carrying."

Bishop looked at the floor. "I'll be fine with the one I was issued. Let's not bother him."

"Okay. Ready for dinner?"

Bishop smiled. "Let's do this."

* * *

><p>That night, Nell led Kensi and Bishop from a ground-floor hotel room into the ballroom. "Okay, Abby," she muttered to her earwig, "just call for us whether the guys we're working are retired or active-duty."<p>

"Got it. 'Conduct unbecoming a Marine' won't stand up in a civilian court like it would in a court martial."

"And Eric's on speed dial?"

"On faster-than-you-can-say-Caf-Pow dial, which is good because it's after midnight here."

Meanwhile Beale and Gibbs watched from ops as Agents Callen and Hanna patrolled the perimeter dressed as security guards.

"Something bothering you, Beale?"

"I'm sorry. It's just I've started using contact lenses instead of glasses, and I thought this would be a good time to try them at work. Should I change them out? I've gotten pretty good at that."

"Nah, just don't let it distract you. We've got an op to run."

When, a minute later, DiNozzo entered dressed as a party guest, Kensi batted her eyes at him. "So, Gunny, ready to show me a good time?"

He pulled her in for a big hug and whispered, "Compartmentalization!"

"This is okay. It'd be weird if we didn't flirt with you. Help me create a feeding frenzy."

"With pleasure," Sean Connery replied, as he gave her a ballroom dip, eliciting an overacted giggle.

Across the room, a shaggy blond in a "Wild Girls Videos" tee shirt was talking to himself, again. "Anything for the show, but still…"

A minute later, the flat top decorating a muscular 40-year-old tottered drunkenly toward Nell. "So, Ginger, what brings you to these parts?"

"I've always liked a man in a uniform." She rubbed against him.

"Well, I'm glad you found me. Half these guys got drummed out when they P-O'd the PC crowd that runs the Corps these days. Just being a Marine, if you ask me."

Across the continent, Abby's zoomed in onto his Marine Corps ID. "Nell, that's Charles Murcheson, married, active duty, from Camp Lejeune."

"Copy that." Nell confirmed, to both of them. "So, they call you guys the Long Guns?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And why's that?" She ran her hands down his chest.

"It's a matter of pride. Probably best if I show you."

"My room's just around the corner," she giggled.

A few minutes later, Nell led Murcheson into the room, shut the door and cuffed him. Agent Bishop looked up from the paperwork she was doing with a disgruntled, handcuffed businessman. "This guy thought I was a working girl. Yours?"

"Conduct unbecoming: wanted to cheat on his wife who's back at Camp Lejeune. Didn't you, Charlie?"

"I passed Kensi on the way in. Her first arrest is already waiting in the paddy wagon. Like lambs to slaughter."

Before long, the party started grinding to a halt, too many men having disappeared. All of them left with a ladyfriend, apparently, but over half had been booked by the NCIS women and sent off to county holding cells.

Back out on the floor, DiNozzo scanned the remaining crowd for Bob Sessions, the host. Finally spotting him, he made his way over. "Wanted to thank you for an awesome time, man."

"Better be awesome. I paid enough for these hookers. The freaky stuff is your own deal, but the basics is paid for."

Gibbs barked into comms, "That's enough to get 'im for pandering. Take him down when you can."

A few minutes later, McGee stumbled drunkenly into the ballroom. "Where is she? Where's that no-good cheating ho of a wife of mine?"

Security guards Hanna and Callen hustled over and grabbed him, then marched him over to the host. "Are you in charge, here, sir?" He nodded. "We'll need a statement from you in order to hold this guy. Can we get a minute of your time?" Another nod.

With his head, Sam motioned toward the door. "Can we talk in the hallway?"

As soon as they cleared out of the sight line, McGee miraculously emerged from his drunken rage to help in the arrest.

By the time they'd returned, a bar-fight had erupted with Wild Times Videos recording the whole thing.

Watching from Ops, Gibbs sounded resigned. "Beale, counting Jones's team, there are eight of us and six of them. Call Abby and we can get the rest of these guys for drunk-and-disorderly."

At 4:20 Eastern time, the phone rang in Abby's lab, "Gibbs wants to shut it down. I'll patch both teams' earwigs through to the same freq."

Gibbs interrupted. "Run it past Jones. We go on her call."

Nell surveyed the scene and called into her earwig, "Just a second. Let's get Bishop and Deeks to block the exits." Ten seconds later, she counted down, "Three, two one," and after six brief scuffles the last six of the Long Guns were handcuffed.

As the sun came up the two NCIS teams finished up their paperwork, and Nell emerged from her makeshift office to compliment the group. "You all did a great job. Now get out of here and sleep off the long night. Agent Gibbs and I have to brief the director and SECNAV, so when we're done, I don't want to see anybody else here." She wagged her finger, indicating each person separately.

Bishop watched with admiration and bumped Kensi's shoulder. "That's how to command. I've gotta learn that."

"She learned it from the best. That finger motion," she tried to duplicate it. "I'm sure Hetty holds the trademark on it. Have you met her?"

"No, but I've heard the legends."

"One hour watching Hetty in action and you'll decide the legends are all true."

Agent Gibbs cut in. "My team has been cheap on their expense accounts for this op, so I say let's burn the excess: D.C. will treat the LA crowd. I figure Leon owes us all that much. We'll regroup at 1800 for dinner, then catch a red-eye back to Washington."

As soon as the big screen came to life, Vance demanded. "How'd it go, Gibbs?"

"Agent Jones can address that: It's her case." The other three pair of eyes popped open.

Without missing a beat, Nell dove in. "Madam Secretary, Mr. Director, sir. A working copy of the case file is in each of your in trays. We're still working up the details, but here are the summary statistics." A spreadsheet table breezed onto the big screen.

Vance examined his copy of the data. "Impressive. Of the twenty-four involved, you arrested fourteen. That's enough to make other guys think twice before signing up for something like this again. You guys did well."

SECNAV scowled. "It's 'You all did well,' Director. It wasn't just the guys."

"Figure of speech, Sara."

A few minutes later, SECNAV concluded the briefing asking, "Well, is there anything more to discuss?"

Gibbs stepped closer to the camera, but then used his thumb to point to Nell at his eight o'clock. "Madam Secretary, when you see Hetty Lange, tell her the tribe's in good hands."


	6. Chapter 6

Acting Operations Manager Nell Jones leads her team against some twenty-first century threats to the U.S. Navy.

Caution: Rated T for some double entendre that would make Eric's bedpost blush!

Standard disclaimers apply: Characters property of Shane Brennan and CBS.

* * *

><p>As the dust-reddened morning sun streamed through a skylight, Acting Operations Manager Nell Jones sat at her makeshift desk in the electronics lab, looking over operations reports. It all seemed unremarkable: a suspicious fire aboard a sub in Groton, a gang trying to sell meth to the crew of a destroyer in Manila. One item caught her eye, though. Aboard the USS <em>Van Buren<em>, at port in San Diego, beside the HMS _Lord Melbourne,_ the US and UK men's national basketball teams would play an exhibition game in preparation for the next international tournament. Nell laughed at the symbolism, then looked at the security staffing for the event. For both MP's and NCIS, the status was "all hands on deck." In fact, several teams from the Mission had been sublet to the San Diego field office for the event.

Nell proceeded to LAPD crime reports, noting a slight dropoff in cocaine arrests since the team took the narco-sub's cargo off the street. Only one incident involving Navy personnel caught her eye, the assault of Bob Bolin, a Master Sergeant honorably discharged three years ago, living now in Reseda. Nell checked the case file and saw that it had been assigned to Mike Cochran and his team, one of the NCIS teams on the night shift at the Mission. "That can't be right," she muttered. With the _Van Buren_ files, she checked her recollection, then made her way to Cochran's office.

She knocked on the ironwork by his portal. "Agent Cochran, do you have a minute?"

"Agent Jones, I've got nothing but minutes."

"Please, call me Nell." Tentatively, she stepped across his portal.

Resignation colored his frustrated voice. "You're looking at an operations manager with nobody to manage."

"And then you caught the Bolin case."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. This just after they sent my agents down to the _Van Buren_ for some basketball game."

"I noticed. Hey, listen: my team doesn't have anything on their plate right now. Could you use a hand?"

Suspicion narrowed his brows. "What's the play here, Hettybot?"

"There's no play. I just figure we're on the same team, we might as well further the cooperation."

"Oh, come on. We both know this case is below their security clearance."

"Just like the basketball game is below your team's. I'm just trying to help grease the skids."

"For the time you need my guys for one of your raids? What 'cha gonna blow up next?"

"It's always a possibility, but would you rather let this case get cold until they get back from San Diego?"

Suspicion mired Cochran's mind in indecision. Finally, he relented, grumbling, "Okay. Count 'em in."

"They'll be over in ten."

As Nell left his office, she heard a muttered, "Tell Sun Tzu Lange I said hello." She did not reply.

Rather, she went to the bullpen, where she found the team in a heated disagreement over the relative merits of Facebook and Twitter. Even Eric had been called in to referee, offering opinions on the security protocols for each. "Okay, team. Huddle up."

They gathered in the clearing between the four desks, while Eric took the end of the clearing opposite Nell's.

"I've been really impressed by how you've cleaned things up on the cases we were working." They smiled.

Kensi smirked, "Even Deeks?"

"Hey. Low blow there, partner."

Nell's gaze sterned. "All of you."

Callen leaned back. "But there's a 'but.'"

"There's always a 'but.'" Sam nodded.

"No, it's all true. There's nothing in your pending box right now. Cases are cleared; even expense accounts are up to date. But there's a problem."

Deeks bumped Sam. "You were right, there's your 'but.' No, not like that. I didn't mean your butt-butt, which is safely against your desk right now. I meant your however-but, which Nell just said, just like you said she'd say, see?" He looked around at his frustrated team. "But," he drawled, turning it into a whole note, "I'm interrupting."

Kensi crossed her arms. "As usual."

"No problem, Deeks. You're just keeping it light, right? Like I said, there's a problem. Headquarters sent Cochran's team to work security for that event aboard the _Van Buren_, and then he caught an assault case."

"So he needs a hand," Callen completed.

"You got it."

"Oh, man! I was hoping to take it easy today."

"Me too," Nell confirmed, "but would you rather do this or do your level four biohazard training?" The agents startled, but Nell continued. "Three pairs of gloves, physohex and Lava soap in the showers, positive pressure moon suits, and" she peeked in the trash can, "it looks like you guys are on your third pot of coffee."

Callen relented. "You've convinced us Nell. Say no more."

She pointed down the hall. "He's ready to brief you now."

Eric picked up his cup of Earl Grey to follow. "You want me to tag along with them?"

"Nah. It's mostly a field op."

"Good. I just got in a production model of the new IFF transponder I was hoping to evaluate."

Nell's puzzled look prompted his explanation.

"Congress is pushing the Navy to update its 'International Friend or Foe' hardware. It's a radio beacon that sends out ID information for every plane in the sky, but since it hasn't been updated since the seventies, the Defense committee wants us to change over to this modern version. There's a bill called 'Secure Identities' coming up for a vote soon."

"Better you than me, Beale."

"Okay if I use the electronics lab?"

Nell was about to roll her eyes and say, "That's the best place for it," when she realized what he was asking. "Umm… yeah. I'll clear a space, then move to ops. Okay?"

"Okay." and with an underhanded high-five, they went to the lab.

About an hour later, Owen Granger marched into the ops center. "Where's your team, Jones?"

"Nice to see you, too, Mr. Assistant Director." He scowled, so Nell smiled brightly. "They're off helping Agent Cochran. His team is down in San Diego, but then he caught an assault case. Everything's caught up here. I figured he could use a hand."

"So you simply reassigned them? That goes through me, Jones."

"They're still technically under me. Cochran needed a hand."

"Jones," he growled.

"Okay, Mr. Assistant director. Just so I know for the future, what outcome would you have liked? Would you have preferred that case go cold 'til Cochran's guys get back from the _Van Buren_?" She leaned in to meet his stare.

"No, just…" He turned on his heels and stormed out of Ops.

Three hours later, Nell returned to the lab to find Eric looking precisely as frustrated as she did. "We need a break."

Eric pushed away from the counter and rubbed his temples. "You can say that again."

"We need a break." They laughed.

"What's going on? Why are you upset?"

"Let's do lunch. Maybe things will be clearer after."

Eric frowned. "Sorry, I brought a bag lunch."

"Me too. That's what I meant. We can eat on the sofas."

After Nell had spread her pasta salad, yogurt, and pear on the coffee table, and Eric his pastrami on rye, she continued her rant. "I just don't get it."

"My thoughts exactly."

"What's…" they asked in unison, "No, you first…"

Finally, Eric broke the unison. "Ladies first."

"Okay, I've been following the weekly balance of payments for the United States, and noticed something funny with South Korea."

Eric rolled his eyes. "Right, 'cause balancing the books in international finance is what everybody does when they have time on their hands."

"No, seriously, now that I've got the clearance, I can monitor economic trends, too. Our mission is to protect the health of this country, economic as well as military. Anyhow, it seems like our imports from them are worth a little bit more than their exports to us."  
>"What? They're the same thing!"<p>

"Right. That's what I thought. And they should be the same amount, but starting about a year ago, the dollar value of stuff we buy from Korea, seen in US accounting, is a little bit more than the amount showing up in South Korea, seen in their accounting."

Eric's eyes widened. "You can access their accounting?"

"Well," she dragged it out. "I might have had to hack into their export bank, just a little bit."

" Just a little bit'?" Eric asked, incredulous. "Nell, you're either in or you're not."

"Okay, Mr. Reprogrammed-Russian-GPS-and-made-their-missile-crash. I hacked, all right? The fact is that there's a little bit of money going out of the US that doesn't seem to be ending up in South Korea."

Eric took a bite of his sandwich. "How much are we talking, here?"

"It's subtle, a fraction of a penny on the dollar."

"Still, that's a lot of dollars, so it's a lot of pennies that are being skimmed."

"Right. It looks like about ten million dollars so far."

"That's a lot of pennies." He looked at the ceiling. "A quick guess says in a roll, they'd stretch from here to Minneapolis." He looked again at her. "Have you tried following individual transactions?"

"I haven't gotten that far, but I think that's my next step." She sounded resigned. "Anyhow, how 'bout you? What's got your tool in a twist?"

Eric almost jumped. "Pardon?"

Nell blushed. "No, not like that, I meant your probe, your screwdriver."

Eric sounded unsatisfied. "What?"

"Your pliers, your voltmeter. Whatever you use when you're doing your electronics. Good grief! What is it with you guys, anyhow? I was thinking about electronics! Nothing umm… below the belt!"

Eric relaxed and sat back on the sofa. "Good." Nell looked, though, at the hands he kept crossed in his lap. "Anyhow," he took a breath to center himself. "There's this one chip with one circuit that I can't figure out. I've no idea what it's for."

"What's it do?" Nell blotted her lips with her napkin.

"That's what I can't figure out. It looks like it just sits there. It's wired to the receiver portion but it's also wired to the transmitter."

"Is there anything you can do to 'wake it up?' a special frequency or something?"

"I like that idea." Eric gathered his Tupperwares, then Nell's, and carried them to the sink where he loaded them with a squirt of soap.

By the time he'd started scrubbing Nell's yogurt cup, Nell tried to elbow him away. "I've got it."

"No let me: think of it as my way of thanking for the idea. You really helped me out."

"You did too, Eric. It was a good lunch, except…"

"Yeah, when you thought there was a knot in my…pliers."

She looked up at him. "Yeah, pliers. It's hard to knot a voltmeter."

"It's not easy to knot a pair of pliers either, but at least you gave me a good idea, a place to start."

"You did too. If we don't catch a case, let's regroup for dinner here, too."

Eric smiled. "Takeout, perhaps? You got it."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, Nell stopped by the electronics lab. Eric's face, satisfied already, brightened further. "Just the person I was hoping to see!"<p>

Nell smiled. "I'm flattered."

"Yeah, look at this!" With Eric's back to her, Nell's face dropped a bit. He pointed to one digital display. "There's the frequency going in, but watch over here." He pointed to a display, showing _US Navy, F-18, 2135_.

A few keystrokes later, the frequency turned to a different number. The output turned to

_Happy Birthday, Nell! _

"But Eric, it's not my birthday."

"That's not the point. My point is that somebody who knew this frequency, and knew what to do with it, could make any plane in the US Navy wish you a happy birthday."

Nell considered this only briefly. "Or anything else they wanted it to say."

"Right. Like somebody else's call sign."

"But what about redundancy?" Nell asked. "Surely we're using other ways of keeping track of our planes."  
>"Yeah, but that only makes it worse. We track our planes from takeoff to landing, so we'd still know it's our plane. But if somebody flipped this switch, our plane would be telling everyone else whatever they wanted it to say."<p>

Nell completed the thought. "Somebody could get the Israelis to shoot this American plane down, simply by telling them it was Iranian instead."

"Right, and it would look to the Americans like Israel had opened fire on an American plane." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Think of the confusion someone could create doing anything like that!"

"But who'd do something like that? Who's behind this chip?"

"I'll have to look into that. Anyhow, _you_ came down _here_. What's up for you?"

"Your idea was good, looking at the individual transactions. It turns out the bank in Macao is playing currency arbitrage with the individual payments. The money is wired from here to Macao, China. There it's turned, briefly, into Chinese Yuan and then turned into Korean Won. But the time it takes, the time it spends as Yuan, depends on the trend in Korea.

"Then the bank tells the Korean firm it did the exchange at the lower rate, when in fact it was at the higher rate. That allows the Macao bank to keep the difference. It's a little skim on a lot of transactions, and must have been really tough to program."

"Yeah. How do they do it?" Eric's eyes drifted out of focus.

Nell's contemplation matched Eric's. "And where does the money go?"

"And where do these chips come from?"

Nell's eyes brightened as if inspiration-struck. "I think it's time for some deep throat action."

"What!?" Eric nearly choked.

"Follow the money! During the Watergate thing, Woodward and Bernstein had this confidential informant—he turned out to be Mark Felt, Assistant Director of the FBI—who told them to 'follow the money.' In the movie, they called him Deep Throat, because he was on what they called deep background. He was played by Hal Holbrook. I thought you knew this stuff, Eric!"

"I did. I do! It's just that I never thought I'd hear 'deep throat action,' when it didn't sound…"

"Off color?" She completed.

"Way off color." Doubt and despair distorted Eric's face. "Is my mind just in the gutter, or would anybody jump to that conclusion?"

"I wouldn't want to do the experiment. Would you?"

"No way, Boss. Let's just drop it."

"Just."

"Okay. Let me clean up here, then I'll be upstairs. I need to find out who's behind this chip."

"Well: follow the money. See you up there, Wolfram."

Another hour of hacking in Ops led each of them to complete the scheme.

"Okay, Nell. I think I've got it figured out."

"What have you got?"

He used his tablet to display some files on the big screen. "The circuits for this thing are built in Anaheim by Securitas Electronics. About a year ago, an investment company bought them out of bankruptcy. They brought in a new manager, a Mr. Raymond Li. Through about a dozen shell corporations—all over the world, I might add—" Eric smirked. "They are owned by a company registered in Gibraltar called" Eric looked at his arrow-covered notes.

"Ocean Sun." Nell completed.

Eric looked up, astounded. "You know them?"

"I just found out about them." Nell threw her files onto the big screen, plastering over Eric's, "Turns out the currency scheme is run by a virus on the Macao bank's computer. It plays the currency game and skims the profit into another account there. From there, the funds go through shell corporations, and end up in Gibraltar owned by—three guesses." She prompted Eric.

"Ocean Sun."

"Got it in one! Okay. Now we've got the scheme. This Ocean Sun Corporation has skimmed ten million dollars from the US-Korea trade account, and is using it to put a defective chip into US warplanes. So I guess the question is 'who's behind it?'"

"Right." Eric agreed. "We also need to figure out what we can do about it."

"A virus: Eric, that's just your thing. Can you take a look at it?"

"Got it, but I was wondering what else this Ocean Sun is up to. Why is Congress so fixated on this particular IFF transmitter?"

"Trade?" Nell cocked her head up. "I'll check up on the political angle if you can dissect this virus. How's that sound?"

Even before answering, Eric started sweeping the files from his workspace to Nell's. "You've got a deal." Then he pulled her virus files to his workspace and settled into his swivel chair.

Half an hour later, Eric leaned back in triumph. "Ha!" When Nell looked up, he continued. "I've been reverse-engineering the code for the virus—it's written in Chinese—and its syntax matches a virus written by the Chinese People's Liberation Army."

Before Nell could congratulate him, Cochran led the agents into ops, clearly in the midst of conversation that exceeded, by one notch, their standard level of bickering. Deeks grumbled, "I tell you Kens, you didn't have to slug him that hard. You broke his jaw!"

"A bodybuilder stands six-foot-five, two-eighty, and he resists arrest. I could'a just let him throw you. Would you have preferred that, Deeks?"

"No, but sending him to ER? That's a little extreme even for you, Kensa-bear."

"Ah, well. At least now we can catch our breath. We can interview him later."

"Wait," Nell interrupted. "Are we talking desk duty pending investigation?"

Sam pulled his chin. "Probably not, but I wouldn't want to do her next psych eval."

Callen put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "That's what Nate's for, Big Guy. I'll let him slug it out with Kensi."

Deeks eyed Kensi nervously. "You might want to choose a different idiom there, Cap'n."

Callen smiled. "Duly noted." He turned to the tech team. "What did we miss here?"

Since Nell had turned back to her workstation, Eric answered. "We've been working on a bug in the IFF hardware Congress is pushing, and have uncovered the scheme behind it, but haven't yet connected all the dots."

Nell looked up. "Actually, I just got it. Up 'til three months ago, income from the Chinese currency hack went to Ocean Sun, just like we said."

Eric interrupted. "They're a shell company in Gibraltar that funnels—err, funneled—about, what, eight million into developing a chip to put US warplanes at risk."

"Right, but starting in April, the money started going to a defense-related Political Action Committee: Strategic Security America. It's run by this guy, Michael Watson. They've dumped about two mil into the ads for three at-risk senators who sit on the Defense Authorization Committee, Senators Wilson, O'Donnell, and Jones—no relation."

Callen asked, "Lemme see if I've got this straight. The Chinese are hacking money that they then use to design a component for our warplanes."

"With a flaw they put in." Eric interjected.

Undeterred, Callen went on. "Right. Then they're buying influence with Congress to jam it down the Navy's throat?"

"You've got it."

Kensi tentatively asked, "So is there anything we can do about it?"

Nell explained, "It turns out Securitas Electronics—that's the company that actually makes the IFF hardware—has tickets for a luxury box at tonight's Dodgers game. The lobbyist, Watson, is headed to Dodger Stadium right now, bringing a few guests, Senators Wilson, O'Donnell, and Jones."

"So, can we take 'em down?" Deeks asked.

Nell nodded. "It's worth playing the hunch. Let's head on over there."

"Mind if I ride along?" Cochran interrupted. "Call it cross-training. I'll get a chance to learn from the A-team."

Deeks crossed his arms and dropped his voice an octave. "You crazy fool."

Nell narrowed her eyes. "Relax, Mr. T. If I go out, we'll make three teams. Callen: you okay with this?"

He nodded, so Nell continued. "Eric, run up the flagpole what we've got so far. If the director doesn't think we've got enough for the arrest, we can stand down, but until then, Agent Cochran, you'll be teamed with Callen. Agent Hanna, take me out to the ballgame." With that, she and the agents bolted for the door.

A few minutes later, Eric called into the comms line, "Okay, team. Headquarters gave us the green light. I've got the blueprints for that part of the ballpark loaded onto your phones. Tapping into security cameras now."

"Hang on, team. Watson and the senators just arrived. They were surrounded by five, no six guys in matching gray dress shirts. Some monogram: Pacific Sun Security. Asian Americans. They stopped outside the box, A23. Running facial rec. Nothing with DMV."

Nell's voice came over comms. "Hey Eric, any chance they're Chinese operatives? Run 'em against the foreign operatives database."

"Bingo. All are agents with the People's Information Bureau, their CIA. Looks like they've set up a perimeter around the senators' box."

"Okay. Let's quietly take out the security guards."

Agent Cochran's voice came on. "Are we sure that's them? Beale said they're in dress shirts, but these guys are in polos."

Callen cut in. "For Eric, that is a dress shirt."

"For Eric, anything that doesn't have a superhero logo on it is a dress shirt."  
>"I'm right here guys."<p>

"Okay. Let's take out the guards silently. We can hold them on concealed weapons charges."

A few minutes later, Nell made the arrest. "Raymond Li, Michael Watson: you're under arrest for treason, influence peddling and a variety of military procurement felonies."

Detective Deeks called in some favors with LAPD, and had some uniforms take everyone to the holding cell in the basement of the stadium. Before the team left the box, Nell's phone rang. Surprise colored her voice as she answered. "Madam Secretary!"

"Agent Jones, are you with the senators still?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Put me on speakerphone."

Turning to the senators, Nell said, "Senators Wilson, O'Donnell, and Jones: the Secretary of the Navy, Sara Porter."

"Thank you, Nell. Senators, Agent Jones and her team just uncovered a plot to use the Secure Identities bill to give a foreign military access to the International Friend or Foe transponders across the US Navy."

Senator O'Donnell glad-handed the team. "Thank you, Thank you for what you've done."

The other two senators emerged from a whispered conversation, Wilson saying, "I think you're absolutely right, Senator Jones." He turned to the speakerphone. "Madam Secretary, I think these loyal, hard-working agents deserve recognition for their work. We've already got the seats and the box holds plenty of people. Can we prevail upon you to give them the rest of the afternoon off?"

"It's Agent Jones' team, it's her call, but it's fine with me," then her voice lightened. "As long as they cheer for the Dodgers."

Nell smiled at the phone. "Sorry, no can do… Twins fan, born and bred."

"Oh, come on!" Deeks wailed, "You'd turn down tickets in the luxury boxes out of loyalty to some cellar scrubbers?"

Senator Wilson cut in. "In the spirit of congressional cooperation, I'm sure I could enjoy the game with even a Yankees fan. But Madam Secretary, I fear your condition is unreasonable. Perhaps the committee needs to re-evaluate your latest request for another aircraft carrier."

A cackle came over the phone line. "Touché, Senator. Agents, enjoy the game. There should be room for Beale as well. Make sure he enjoys it, too." Then the call ended with a click.

Kensi reached for her phone. "Eric, we just had the Secretary of the Navy command your presence at this ball game."

Senator Jones cut in, "And three sitting US Senators. It's the top of the first, young man: there's plenty of time."

"Okay, I'll be there. But there's one condition. Deeks, over comms I heard you putting down the Twins. Before I get there, you'll need to have apologized to Senator O'Donnell, the senior senator from Minnesota."


	7. Chapter 7

Tag to Reign Fall. Nell and Eric talk about Sam's parenting style, and Nell says too much, again.

Here's an explanatory note for readers outside the U.S.: The US Military Academy, at West Point, is the traditional training school for commissioned officers in the Army, while the Naval Academy, in Annapolis, trains most of the officers in the Navy and Marine Corps. A Senior Chief Petty Officer is non-commissioned, so Sam did not go to Annapolis.

Standard disclaimers apply: NCIS: LA and all its characters are property of Shane Brennan and CBS.

* * *

><p>The team gathered at the Hannas' house for a Christmas celebration, and to celebrate Aiden Hanna's success as a junior at Simi Valley Military Institute.<p>

About ten, the guest of honor followed his father into the kitchen. Squaring his shoulders, he asked, "May I have a word, Senior Chief?"

"Please, Aiden, that's Dad."

"Sorry, Sir." Sam narrowed his eyes, so Aiden corrected. "Dad. This takes some getting used to." He paused a second and looked over his shoulder. "Permission to speak freely?" Sam gave his son another look. "Right, but this is more delicate than usual."

"Go on," Sam prompted.

"Well, I couldn't help but overhear that Mr. Beale is serving as Ms. Jones' designated driver."

"Right. The designated driver system is the proper way to handle social drinking."

"Correct, Sir! … Umm… right, Dad, but at the Institute, we're told that a male should never be designated driver for a female, unless they're married." He paused and collected his thoughts "We were trained for when we turn twenty-one and allowed to drink."

Sam interrupted him. "Relax, Aiden, Thank you. Thank you for your concern and your tact in addressing this, but this case is, in my judgment, different." Aiden looked at him skeptically, but he continued. "First, Nell…Ms. Jones… is only having one drink. Second, all of the team knows Mr. Beale to be of fine character, old enough to know not to try anything. And third, Ms. Jones is the one with the hand-to-hand training. So, all in all, I would never think she'd be at risk."

"Alright. Thanks, Dad."

Sam reached out his hand for a shake, but as soon as Aiden took it, Sam pulled him into a bear hug. "Thank you, Aiden. Talking about alcohol, talking about sexual assault, can be difficult, but I'm glad you raised the concern."

About an hour later, the party wound down, and Nell and Eric waved their farewells as they climbed into his car. A few blocks down the road, Eric broke the silence. "I still can't figure it out, though."

"Can't figure what out?" Nell probed.

"Sam's parenting style."

"Whaddya mean?"

Eric explained, "Well, he's got Aiden away at some Military Institute, while he dressed up Disney for Kamran's birthday."

"And?"

"It just doesn't seem consistent, fair even. Kamran can be a girly-girl while Aiden's rigidly uniformed. Does that seem right? Doesn't it just play into the stereotypes?"

Nell finally caught on. "I see what you're saying. He's playing dress-up with the girl, but rushing to regiment the boy into a man's world."

"That's it. What does it say about their aspirations, their plans for the kids?"

"You think they'll send Kamran to that school? Or will it be a convent or a finishing school?"

"I wouldn't go that far. Besides, all the finishing schools have gone out of business." Eric drove for a while in silence, but then returned to the subject. "The thing that confuses me is there's a limit to this line of thinking. I think we've got a fair point, but it's not like he was Aladdin to her Jasmine, or something."

"Eww, that's just creepy, Beale. Jasmine runs off with Aladdin."

"My point is, they were monsters, not princesses."

"Besides, Eric, it looks like Kamran can hold her own in that family. I saw her give Aiden the evil eye once…. Stopped him dead in his tracks."

"What? Like Hetty's gorgon stare?"

"It's a start, but the gorgon stare takes years of practice." Nell agreed.  
>"Well, you should know," Eric said as he stopped at a light. He looked over with a rakish smirk for Nell, but once he caught sight of her, he froze as he withered under her shadow-accented glare.<p>

Finally, Nell relented and broke out laughing. When Eric realized he'd been played, he joined in the laugh.

After a pause, Eric continued, "But then I saw her give Aiden a different look, too. It said, pretty clearly, that she knew something Aiden wished she didn't."

"Ahh, the subtle art of sibling blackmail."

"You sound like a practitioner, Nell."

"I might have used it, say once or twice, on my big brother."

"The one who's, what, five years older than you, and looks like he can bench-press a rhinoceros?"

"At the time, it would have only been a moose, but yes. It gave me an early lesson that knowledge is power. Again, only once or twice, that is." Nell laughed.

"So do you think what Kamran knows is that bad? Something Sam should be worried about?"

"If it's what I think it is," Nell mused, "I don't think it's as bad as the kids think it is."

"Oh?" Eric took his hand off the wheel to add prompting gestures.

"This is all hush-hush, by the way. Don't let it get to Sam."

"My lips are sealed." Eric gave the universal padlock gesture.

"At the punchbowl, Michele told me she caught wind of a very productive conversation Aiden had with a recruiter from West Point."

"That's bad."

"Michele said she got a courtesy call from the recruiter as soon as it was over. You can imagine the academies want to tread lightly around family-service loyalties."

"I can imagine some of those calls don't go too well."

"I bet that's why the recruiter calls the parent who didn't serve."

"Save the fireworks for after the call: cowardly, but it makes sense." After a few blocks, he continued, "Does it look like Aiden is on track to get in, grades and all?"

"Michele said she'd talked with other parents from Aiden's school. It sounds like he'd make it into Army or Navy."

"Don't forget the Air Force Academy. What with their cyber command, that's what I'd be rooting for."

"Beale, you're with the NCIS," Nell emphasized the "N." "That N stands for Navy."

"Oop! Sorry. I almost sounded disloyal. Don't turn me in, or they'll make me walk the plank!"

"Nah, not the plank. Worst that happens, I figure we'll keel-haul ya a couple a' times."

"Okay, Okay!" Eric huffed in surrender. "I'm cheering for the Naval Academy. Satisfied? Ooo-rah, _Semper fi_, and all that jazz."

"That's better, Beale."

After another minute of mock-prickly silence, Eric ventured, "So, do you think West Point is where he'd actually go?"

"It's early in the process, still a year before the applications are due, but it sounds like Aiden could get in if that's what he chose."

"He wouldn't."

"Michele said it looks like West Point is a real possibility!" Nell persisted.

"Sam would have a cow. A screaming, purple, BSE-positive cow!"

"First, Beale, your biology's all wrong. Cross-species surrogacy is difficult and rare enough, but it's biologically impossible for a male to be a surrogate." They laughed.

"But actually, my source suggested that Sam would be okay with it. West Point, that is."

Eric teased, "Your source? Still with that air of mystery about you, Ms. Jones."

"Okay, Okay. Michele told me, also at the punchbowl, that Sam's loyalty is to the country, more than the service. But still, she'll make sure Sam is okay with West Point if that's what Aiden decides."

"I don't doubt she can." Eric thought further. "It sounds like we're watching the first stage of Aiden's act of rebellion."

"Going to West Point is an act of rebellion?" Nell scoffed. "We should be so lucky."

Eric's car, slowing for a stop sign, screeched to a halt a clear fifteen feet before the sign.

"What?" Eric flabbergasted.

Recognition brought a blush to her cheek. "I'm sorry. I meant, 'we _all_ should be so lucky.' What did you think I meant?"

"Yup, Sorry, I just really put my foot in my mouth this time."

"Relax, Eric. It's my foot that was in my mouth. Your foot was on the brake."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'll be working the cricks out of my neck for a week."


End file.
